 
Wiping Out Guilt

(A Kina McKevie Crime Novel)

By

Laurence Moore

Copyright © 2017 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2017

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the publisher or author is an infringement of copyright law.

Also by Laurence Moore

The Kina McKevie Series

Wiping Out Guilt

Chasing Answers

The Wasteland Soldier Series

A Fractured World

Escape From Tamnica

Drums of War

Men of Truth

The Atlanta Mission

For more information visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurencemoore>

About The Author

Laurence Moore has been writing since the 1970s. He enjoys fast-moving books with complex main characters taking the lead.

The Kina McKevie series is set in modern-day London and features an ex-convict turned investigator, elbow deep in solving crime.

The Wasteland Soldier series is set in a post-apocalyptic America and features Stone, a no-nonsense fighting man looking to restore balance to a dangerous world.

About The Book

Out of prison. Looking for redemption. Caught up in a murder inquiry. Now it's time to put things right.

_Wiping Out Guilt_ introduces readers to Kina McKevie - a complicated woman who slides into the world of private investigation. This origins story is the first in a series.

"There wasn't a day that I didn't hate myself. What can you do with that? Disappear, that's what and London is the best city in the world to disappear in. No one notices. No one cares. It's what I've done since getting out. And it's working OK for me ..."

Half-Irish, half-Jamaican Kina McKevie is back in East London more than a decade after killing her abusive, drug-dealing boyfriend. Burdened by the guilt of a self-destructive past, she exists on the fringes of life, shunning family and friends and hiding in dead-end night jobs.

When record producer Simon Farley is stabbed to death, his girlfriend, Olivia, Kina's half-sister, is arrested and charged with his murder. Convinced of Olivia's innocence and determined to fight for the truth, Kina starts her own investigation, knowing the time for hiding is over.

But eleven years is a long time out of the game and the streets and estates of London have grown more deadly than Kina could have ever imagined.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Also By

Contact

About The Author

About The Book

Wiping Out Guilt

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Coming Next

PART ONE

ONE

There wasn't a day that I didn't hate myself.

What can you do with that? Disappear, that's what and London is the best city in the world to disappear in.

No one notices, no one cares.

It's what I've been doing since getting out. And it's working OK for me...

* * *

It was 9.55pm.

Six women went into the building. I was one of them. It was a four-hour shift.

There would be routine during that time. I had no problem with routine. I didn't care how mind-numbing or repetitive it was. There was clarity in routine and neatness and that suited me fine.

The work was physically demanding but mentally unchallenging. I got on with it. No complaints, no arguments, nothing was beneath me. The company was Fast Genie Industrial Cleaning, a firm well-established across East London over the past six years. The boss man, Mr Lakhami, got no attitude from me. I wanted to work, I _needed_ to. I had all my certificates, earned inside, once I'd caught myself on. I was now a model employee, at least I had been for the past three months.

The six of us wore an identical uniform; grey polo shirt, loose-fitting blue trousers and heavy-duty black boots. We also wore a red and white visitor lanyard, handed to us at reception by one of two security guards. It was the talkative one that signed us in. He was a well-built black man in his twenties with a strong East London accent. His name was Liam or Leo or something, I was rubbish with names. He always enjoyed a joke or two with us. But I didn't laugh at any of them. I didn't even smile. I doubt he noticed.

Two of the women were Nigerian; they were gorgeous-looking and spoke English and French mixed in with a language they called Yoruba, I think. I'd never heard of it before. They seemed perpetually happy, filling late-night corridors with gentle song as they worked. They had great singing voices and there was a good vibe between them and the two security guards. Both men wore wedding rings and flirted with the two women, especially Liam or Leo or whatever his name was. There were promises of running away to sun-drenched beaches. The second guard didn't say as much. He mostly laughed along with the harmless comments from his partner. He was a much older guy, in his mid-sixties. It was all good-natured and the girls sung melodies at the men.

In days gone by I might have enjoyed the banter. Right now, to be truthful, the only company I was interested in was my own - and I wasn't too keen on that. One of the other women I worked with was named Jenny. I connected with her the most. By that I meant I nodded at her and asked how her day had been. That was the extent of our friendship. She was close in age to me. I was thirty-six and I reckoned she was about the same, give or take a year.

Jenny's life could rival any long-running soap opera. It was complicated with a new boyfriend and his two kids and his ex-wife who was, in Jenny's words, a social media monster or troll or something. Then there was her ex-husband and her own four kids – all caught in the crossfire of a rampant fling with a local guy who'd decorated her new flat and who she'd coarsely labelled _donkey-dick_. I thought he was the new boyfriend but apparently not. It was messy.

"Do you want me to put you in touch with him? You won't sit down for a week."

I'd told her I wasn't interested, _donkey-sized_ or otherwise.

"Are you a bit funny, like?" she'd asked, in that dense, foghorn Liverpool accent of hers.

She had terrible mood swings and these came to work with her. No middle ground with Jenny. One moment she was cheerful and talkative and the other she was ready to slash her wrists and exterminate the entire male population. But at least she had shit to fight over. I could've told her of my past, straightened her out with a few stories of my own, only I didn't.

Besides, she never asked anything and I was glad. I was nobody, a sounding-board in her eyes, the way I liked it.

Some nights Jenny got pissed at the Nigerian women; it was the singing and the fact they were always happy, I guessed. She'd tell them to shut up but the girls took it as humour and would sing even more. They didn't get it. Once she told them to fuck off back home. She looked at me directly afterward and later that night, once her temper had tapered off, she'd cornered me and apologised.

"I didn't mean you, you know, when I said that about going back home. I mean, you're almost home anyway. _You're not one of them._ "

I was mixed race. My mother was Irish, my father Jamaican. Dad would've tore strips off her for that comment but he was gone now. I shrugged off her words. It was the only thing to do. I'd been born in Belfast and that was a city where colour wasn't the only division. I'd heard a lot worse than what had come out of Jenny's mouth. Besides, she wasn't filled with hate - only her throwaway comments were.

The Nigerian women could've have reported her to Mr Lakhami and I could've backed them up but none of us wanted any situations at work. Mr Lakhami quickly moved on employees who made waves.

I didn't say much that night or any other night. I didn't have much in the way of conversation. I wasn't in that kind of loop. You weren't cut off inside. I knew about the world. But I had nothing to offer. I was here to put the hours in and get paid. Not gossip about celebrity divorces or reality TV or who was stepping out with who. On the few occasions I said anything, and it was usually about tea or coffee in the canteen, the two Nigerian women would quiz me about where I was from.

"You are not from London," one of them would say. She had a broad smile, shiny teeth and a fierce sounding voice. I never could get a handle on her name. "Where are you from? We want to know where you are from."

"She is from Australia," said the other girl. I couldn't pronounce her name, either. She had a punchy tone. Every word was a jab. "Maybe New Zealand. Are you from New Zealand? Or Australia?"

"No, no, no. She is from Sweden, yes? Yes? You are Swedish, yes?"

"Kina is not a Swedish name. Does that sound Swedish? Anyway, Swedish girls have blonde hair."

They would laugh at that comment and I would smile, a rare thing, and leave them hanging and guessing.

It was Jenny who bustled into the conversation, setting them straight.

"What are you pair chatting about? Kina's from Ireland, leprechauns, shamrocks and all that."

The women were disappointed. Ireland clearly wasn't exotic enough for them. God knew where they thought Jenny was from, probably the moon. Jenny was a little off target, in truth. I knew she thought I'd been born in the south, the republic, but I'd grown up on a grey council estate in the north. There wasn't much left of my accent after all these years in England, just a twang here and there when my blood raged.

The cleaning contract was with a wholesaler on an industrial estate. It spanned two units. The warehouses were shuttered. Through grilled windows and padlocked wire gates we could see parked forklift trucks, shrink-wrapped pallets of cardboard boxes and long aisles of shelves stacked with stock. It was a bit eerie-looking with the lights off and no staff around but we didn't have to work in there. Our business was with the offices, canteen, corridors, stairwells and toilets.

We swept, wiped, emptied, vacuumed, polished. We straightened blinds, switched off lamps and took away coffee and tea-stained mugs.

What would Billy make of me now? Fuck him...

I was out of the halfway hostel, putting distance from the past. I had an honest job. I rented a flat. I paid my bills, bought smokes and cans of lager and picked up clothes from the local charity shops.

I wasn't going back to my old life. No matter the temptation.

I looked up from my bucket. It was midnight already. We were allowed one break halfway through our four-hour shift. I never started it early or came back late. Jenny did, and Sally, her mouthy partner-in-gossip. They were always first in the canteen and last to fill the kettle and get out the mugs. Pauline, a quiet woman in her fifties, made a point about it every night but she often skived a few minutes here and there. Even the Nigerian women came back late.

I took off my goggles and gloves, thoroughly washed my hands and headed for the canteen. Drink made, I went outside for a smoke.

An overhead light came on. I huddled in a doorway, put down my mug of tea and shook out a cigarette, ducking my head from the wind as I lit it. I picked up the mug, took a sip and leaned against the wall. The light illuminated a stack of wooden pallets and two bins with unit numbers painted on the front. The rest of the industrial estate was in darkness, silent, all except the parcel company across the way. That place ran every hour, vehicles in and out. I could hear a radio, songs of the sixties, and echoing voices of drivers and loaders.

The estate was just off a busy dual-carriageway. The city crowded round us, a wall of lights and perpetual noise, never sleeping, never shutting off. There was nowhere in London, not one tiny spot, where a quiet moment existed. That suited me just grand – too much of the past lurked in quiet moments.

I dragged smoke into my lungs, stared at the brightly-lit buildings soaring into the night sky. An ominous bank of clouds was rolling in. It was going to chuck it down later.

The radio jangled away at the parcel company; a strumming guitar and a whining voice singing about love.

Jenny and Sally came out to smoke. I straightened up. The three of us crowded in the doorway. They took out their smart phones, ash crumbling onto tiny, lit-up screens. They shared pictures, posted messages and spoke in mumbles, never really looking at each other. I had a smart phone. It was tucked into my back pocket. I hardly ever got calls or texts and had only gone online once.

I funnelled smoke through my nostrils. Sally showed me a picture of a pensioner and a cat with an amusing caption. I didn't really get the joke but she did so I forced out a half-laugh for her.

Break was over, for me anyway. My cigarette end went into a rusted metal bucket, hissing as it landed in an inch of water.

I reached for the door handle. A dark blue car drove onto the estate. It cruised by the parcel company and then us before disappearing from sight. There was nothing over that way except units in darkness.

I waited. I watched. Pauline complained I was letting in the cold air. I'd forgotten I still had the door open.

The car didn't reappear. I guessed we weren't the only ones working late. I went inside, got back to work and forgot about it.

It was the early hours of Tuesday morning but it still felt like Monday night, the start of the working week, and one shift would quickly blur into another.

Tonight would become tomorrow, tomorrow would be the same as tonight, which meant every tonight and tomorrow was just a strange repeat of yesterday.

Then my phone began to buzz. And none of that was about to matter.

The Nigerian women were singing in Yoruba. It sounded beautiful but they stopped at once.

"Answer it, Kina," said one of them.

"You never know," said the other. "It might be a man."

Their eyes sparkled as I took the phone from my back pocket. I must have come across as pretty lonely to them.

"Is it a man?"

I was going to disappoint them again. It wasn't a man. It was _never_ going to be a man. It was Olivia, my sister.

She sobbed down the line at me. I couldn't make out half of what she was coming out with but I got my head round one thing pretty quick - tonight wasn't going to be a repeat of yesterday.

And tomorrow? I had no idea about tomorrow because Olivia was in the police station.

Her boyfriend, Simon, had been stabbed to death.

TWO

I stood with the late-night onlookers.

The residents of Clement Drive were in shock. No one had a camera phone out. No one was filming this to upload. There was plenty of muttering and head shaking and sadness. The city was drowning in crime, beatings, stabbings and shootings. It was on the news every night, in the local paper every week, but not here, not here in this part of Stratford, down this charming and expensive cul-de-sac. The last crime reported here was an attempted burglary and that had been four years ago.

Now there was police tape rippling in the wind and the crackle of a police radio and multiple cars parked at the kerb, lights reflecting in the puddles.

I stared at a cordoned-off detached house. It was red brick with a paved driveway and a single brick garage with a shutter painted blue. There was a car out front, shiny and black. The doors were open, the interior light was on, and a white-suited man was rummaging in the glove compartment.

A forlorn-looking tree stood on the front lawn, brown leaves twisting as they fell from shaking branches.

The house lights were on. White-suited men and women searched room-by-room, handling shit that didn't belong to them. There were more in the street, photographing the pavement and the side of a house.

Olivia had lived with Simon for a year. They'd dated for six months before that. I was still locked up at the time this was all going on. She told me about him when she came to visit and times we spoke on the phone. He was a record producer, working with local bands. She gave me a few names. I didn't recognise any of them; I was old school, heavily into jungle with a slice of Tracy Chapman when I needed to chill. He had a son, Trevor, primary school age, who lived with the mother, Melanie. _The knock on the door would come soon enough for them._

Simon never came to visit me inside. There were reasons, work commitments, that kind of thing, but I could always tell Olivia was lying or covering for him. She didn't have to because I didn't have a problem. Mum and Douglas were used to visiting and Olivia had been coming since she was eight-years-old. For Simon it would have been an intimidating place and he was probably wary of me. It must have been hard for Olivia, breaking it to him that she had a sister inside for murder. The guy didn't owe me a thing.

I met him twice after getting out. He was a good-looking black guy, bald-headed with a neat goatee-style beard. He was eight or nine years older than Olivia. I didn't say that much to him but he tried his best to include me in every conversation. He was pretty nervous both times but he did alright because I wasn't the easiest person in the world to talk to. I found him polite, intelligent, hard not to like.

But there was something about him. He seemed a little distant in the quiet moments when conversation naturally fell away. He would look around to see who was nearby. Maybe, deep down, he was embarrassed to be seen with an ex-convict. I don't know. I was probably reading too much into it.

I came away thinking he was perfect for Olivia and the bonus was that Mum liked him – she adored him _,_ and that was a big headache out of the way.

No one had ever adored Billy, or even liked him. They'd all warned me. I should've listened.

I was listening now, digging into the chatter around me. I picked up on what had gone down.

One neighbour had witnessed Olivia arriving home shortly after 10pm. He was a tall white man with tightly-curled brown hair and an unremarkable face. He clearly remembered the time because he was expecting his wife home at 10.30pm and when he heard a car on his drive he'd glanced at the clock and was surprised she was back so early. He checked at the window and saw a cab bounce off his driveway. It was then he noticed Olivia going into the house. He made a quick gesture with his hand, indicating she'd been drinking, before diving into a long-winded rant about vehicles manoeuvring on his drive.

Another neighbour, a woman in her fifties, said "I saw him go out. I called out to him but he didn't reply. I don't think he heard me."

"What time was that?" I didn't see who asked the question. "I think it was about eleven," was the reply. "I was putting out the rubbish. I let Eddie back in. He always comes home at eleven." I got the feeling Eddie was a cat, not her husband. "Poor fella, awful thing to happen."

"It was the yelling that got us out of bed," said a man in his late-thirties. He wore a thick fleece over pyjama bottoms.

"Oh, God, that was awful," said the guy who'd seen Olivia arrive home. He'd given up moaning about his driveway.

"I doubt any of us will sleep tonight," said another.

A white-suited woman crouched and snapped photographs of bloodstains on the pavement.

"You don't expect it here," remarked a scrunched-looking woman. She hadn't said anything up to this point. "Even though he was, you know."

You know?

It was drizzly, cold and windy. I shivered. I wore a jacket over a fleece, jeans and trainers. I took out my cigarettes. Someone at my elbow grumbled as I sparked my lighter. I couldn't give a fuck if they had a problem with me smoking or a problem with the colour of my skin – _you know?_

Besides, my sister had a bigger problem and in the next few minutes I was going to make it a hell of a lot worse.

White-suited detectives gathered on the pavement, pooling the information they had, starting to build a picture of the murder. There was gesturing and pointing and a few of them walked to the corner of the drive. It was a mobile crime scene. Simon had been attacked nearby but managed to make his way home and had died there.

I kept watching, kept listening _,_ a lump in my throat, a gurgling in the pit of my stomach.

They're gonna come for me. Any moment now. Once they start processing names they'll realise that Olivia has a half-sister with a record.

Cops are cops. Fuckers are gonna put this shit on me and send me back. You did this crime. You took a knife and attacked him.

It's what you did before...

I thought back to Olivia's call. She'd been near-hysterical, choking out the words.

" _How could anyone hurt him, Kina? He was so kind. We were going to try for a baby next year..."_

She wasn't me. This would crush her. She had fire but not enough to pull through this. She'd need me but I didn't know how to be there for her.

I continued to smoke and stare, dark eyes glazed.

There was a reporter with the cops, scrambling for a story, pulling at the edges of human tragedy. He was a piece of shit, the lowest of the low.

People shuffled around me, muttering, getting tired, talking about going back inside and having a cuppa. I noticed, for the first time, they were all white. My mum was white. My father had been black. I was an outsider amongst these people. _Had they accepted Simon?_ _"Even though he was... you know."_ Yeah, I knew what she'd meant and I'd noticed no one seemed to have any issue with her comment. They would've accepted Olivia. She was as white as it got.

Had she called Mum and her dad, Douglas?

My real dad had arrived in London at the beginning of the sixties. He was already a teenager by then. His parents met a wall of hostility and were employed in unskilled, low-paid jobs. Then Dad met Mary McLaughlin. He had a thing for Irish girls. She had a thing for black men. It was a potent mix.

By the seventies, Mary wanted to go back home. There was too much hate toward the Irish in London and Dad was sick of the racism, as well. They moved to Belfast and planned on getting jobs and saving for a house, marrying and having plenty of wee ones. None of that ever happened. I don't know why they split. Dad used to tell us stories of his wild days when he first arrived in the city; drinking, stealing, taking drugs, parties. I know he met Mum when he was seeing Mary. The randy old devil let that slip one night.

I was ten when he was ripped out of my life. They came for him late one evening; masked men in military jackets with baseball bats and hammers. He'd been warned twice by those who really controlled the city. _Stop fucking thieving, Ruben, or we'll take your kneecaps, you fucking black bastard._ He couldn't stop. They knew he never would. His body was found on waste ground, hands tied behind his back. They'd shot him in the head and dumped him with the old tyres and mattresses.

The cops came round asking questions. We knew who was responsible. We _all_ knew who was dishing out the punishments. But to tout, as we called it, was a death sentence worse than the one Dad had received.

Mum kept me off school for a time, not that I was going much anyway. School was tough for me. It wasn't London. I was the only mixed race girl in our class. Now I was the only mixed race girl with a murdered dad.

We moved to London in the summer of 1991. I was eleven at the time. I left behind the estate and school, friends and enemies. We stayed with extended family before settling in a place called Stratford. I'd never heard of it before. Despite my accent, I didn't stand out. Mum never lost hers but mine faded over the years. I went to a same-sex school. I was no longer the odd one out. London swallowed me and spat me out as one of its own.

I was a moody and out of control teenager when Douglas King came on the scene. When Mum married him I refused to change my name. I'd been born a Samson but Mum had changed me back to her maiden name when she'd been widowed. So I was a McKevie and there was no way I was name-swapping for a third damn time. Mum accepted my decision without argument. _That was a first._ I was a nightmare at home. I still carry the guilt of that and she doesn't let me forget it.

Douglas was English. He was nothing like my dad had been. There was no fire or anger in him. He was a settled man. He worked hard, paid all the bills. I treated him like he was nothing.

I wasn't there for the wedding. I disappeared, got wasted and thought of Dad; that broad grin, his big hands dancing me round the kitchen, the smell of fried chicken and coconut bread.

I had thought of going back to Belfast, to rekindle my past, but I had no money and no real energy or ambition to do so. It didn't feel like home anyway. My accent had spliced. I was with a crowd of friends who were English born. They treated me as one of them and we lived day-to-day; drink, drugs, theft. There were a few young men over the years but none of them satisfied. My heart was taken and not by any of them. Her name was Jade and she had been my best friend since I'd arrived in London. I'd loved her in every way possible but I didn't know how to begin with her so I found what I needed disappearing into gay bars, alone, easy prey for the mature women looking for a taste of something young and rough.

Then Olivia came along. I wasn't there at the birth. I wasn't there for the first few months of her life. I didn't care about having a sister.

Our group was breaking at the edges. Jade had a guy in her life. He was a prick and she didn't seem happy. We were rolling into heavy crime, creating a reputation. Then one of us overdosed. It shook us to the core. It was coming apart at the seams. It was time to run.

I phoned Mum, crying, and she told me to come home and meet my baby sister and all would be forgiven. I went home and met my sister but nothing was forgiven. Mum worked me over day after day, always when Douglas wasn't around.

But it was worth it, for Olivia. I'd never held a baby before. She had pale skin and wispy yellow hair. She was stinky, demanding and drove me crazy with the crying and shit-filled nappies. I couldn't be angry at her. She had tiny hands and tiny fingers that clasped and unclasped. There were daily miracles as she blinked and smiled and burped. My hardened exterior was starting to melt. I was even decent to Douglas. He mentioned once he had two sons but didn't talk to them or his ex-wife. Mum and Douglas were older parents. This was a second chance for them.

"I want to get it right this time," he said.

"Oh, aye," said Mum.

I realised, with numbing sadness, that she felt she'd _got it wrong_ with me. _Did she blame herself for the way I was?_

I had recently turned eighteen. There wasn't much fuss. I remembered not caring because for once in my life there was someone else to think about, someone tiny and defenceless, and maybe this was my chance to _get it right_.

Turning a corner, I began to sort out the mess in my head, to lower a few barriers, to understand the anger that roared inside.

Then I met Billy and what had gone before was nothing compared to what was to come.

Dad would've battered him from the first moment. He would've seen the kind of man Billy was. I knew but I couldn't resist the life. That weakness was always going to be in me.

Douglas got to see Olivia grow. My Dad never did and I was glad because he died believing his little girl was an angel.

He was the only person in life I'd never disappointed.

* * *

I blinked, flicked away my cigarette.

Uniformed officers were knocking on doors, notebooks open, dragging more sleepy residents into the stark reality of a murder inquiry.

A few of them were heading toward the group I stood in.

I had to get away.

The rain was beginning to fall a little heavier now. Head spinning with memories, I thrust my hands into my pockets, dipped my head and began to walk, hoping to look inconspicuous. My curly dark hair tumbled around my face.

An engine came on, headlights speared the shiny tarmac. I stole a furtive glance. It was a police car. I watched it from the corner of my eye. It nudged slowly out of the close, wipers squeaking. I was too busy checking out the car that I didn't see a small cluster of people ahead. I collided into them. One woman grunted, fired a sharp look at me. I mumbled a hasty apology and brushed past her but she didn't acknowledge it and let everyone know. The hairs on the back of my neck crawled. Sweat flooded my armpits. The woman flung her arms in the air, making a scene. I reached the mouth of the close, tossed up my hood, ready to run.

There were two uniforms on the corner, watching, talking. One of them was in his forties, bearded, gloved hands hooked into his belt. His partner was fresh-faced, a typical cop partnership.

That fucking loudmouth bitch, she'd drawn their gaze onto me.

I rounded the corner.

"Excuse me, miss."

They came off the kerb. My heart thudded.

"Miss?"

I began to cross between parked cars, pace quickening. I didn't stop or look round at them.

"Miss, can you wait a moment?"

Both men broke into half-trots. I spotted an alleyway ahead. This was Stratford. I knew the lay of the land.

They knew where I was going. Now they shouted. "Hey, don't move."

My hands flew from my pockets. I sprinted toward the alleyway, leaping a metal barrier. I disappeared into darkness, increasing my speed, arms and legs pumping.

There was the clatter of boots behind me. A voice shouted into a radio. I was in good shape. I kept running, not wasting a second in looking back.

I reached a canal, a black ribbon beneath the stars. I ran along the towpath, pushing hard toward a bridge. There was no one around. The wind bit at me. The rain blew in my face.

I scrambled up a lager-can strewn grass verge and fled across the bridge, the roar of a plane overhead.

The outline of the young copper appeared on the towpath. I didn't know where the older one was.

Moving unseen, I reached houses, gardens, alleyways, garages, an empty street, a bus shelter.

A cluster of youths were gathered inside. There were four boys, one girl. One of the boys was kissing her whilst another had his hand up her skirt. Bikes were scattered on the rain-soaked pavement, takeaway wrappers rustled in the wind.

My footsteps alerted them, they glanced over, uninterested.

I sprang over a rickety chain-link fence, weaved past bins and rubbish and emerged onto another road that ringed a green and was surrounded by houses. There were no lights showing. I spotted a fenced-in playground, headed for it.

Jumping a brightly-painted wall, I made for a wooden playhouse. I tugged open the door. It was damp inside. I folded away, out of sight, and caught my breath.

In the distance, a freight train clattered along dark lines. There was the muted sound of traffic, the beat of music.

The young copper emerged on the edge of the green. He stood for a moment, hand on his radio.

Then he trudged away, looking angry. He shouldn't have been. I was picked up an hour later.

THREE

"Why did you run?"

It was a decent question, the cop had to ask it, but I folded my arms, gave her a sour look and said nothing.

"If you talk to me I can help you."

She paused.

"I can help your sister."

I didn't answer.

"I want to help you both."

I could hear the rain. It was throwing it down out there, beating against the frosted windows of the interview room.

"Your sister has lost her partner under brutal circumstances. But I also understand how scared you must be, Kina. I want you to know that you haven't been forgotten in all this."

The room was warm. I was glad because my clothes were damp. Without thinking, I ran a hand through my hair, untangling knots.

"You were released nearly four months ago and tonight's murder mirrors your own crime."

They'd brought me to Stratford police station. I'd been here several times. I'd been charged here. It might have been this exact room.

"I know you're frightened, Kina. I understand."

She wants to send me back.

"Why don't you drink your coffee, Kina?"

It sat on the scarred desk that separated us, steam rising.

"Do you know me?" I said.

Her name was Corrigan. Her rank was sergeant. A uniformed constable was at the door.

"Do you? Do you know me? No, you don't, so don't keep up with this Kina shit like we're friends, you get me?"

I kissed my teeth.

"I'd like to get to know you," she said, ignoring my tone. "I want to help you."

"Is that why they sent you?" I gave a short laugh.

"Do you mean because I'm black or because I'm a woman?"

"Either. Both. I don't fucking care. You pick. You're the boss in here. I know what I am. You know what I am."

"Tell me why you ran from the crime scene?"

"You know why."

"You need to speak up." She gestured toward the tape machine. "Tell me why you ran."

"You fucking know why."

Corrigan turned her attention to a file on the desk. It was bulky and the pages inside were untidy. It should've irritated her but it didn't. It was irritating me. I needed to get those pages all neat and tidy, bring a bit of clarity and order to things.

She took her time reading, messing up the file even more and keeping me waiting. It was annoying the fuck out of me. A gust of wind rattled the windows. She looked up, suddenly, and then looked back down, turning a page as she did.

I got her moves. She was working me over. The friendly-friendly approach had got her nowhere. She was going to say very little, create a void. The silence would, she hoped, unbalance my thoughts and get me talking. Like that was going to happen.

"You ain't reading that shit," I said. _Fuck, I'd let her win, already._ "You know you read that file before coming in here. You know all there is to know."

I shifted in my chair, unfolded and folded my arms.

"I want to see my sister."

"Not yet."

"Now. I want to see her now. She's done nothing."

Corrigan paused.

"No."

I clenched my hands against the edge of the desk. "What happened to her fella?"

"I was hoping you might be able to fill in some of the pieces for us, Kina."

"Oh, sure." I snorted. "And you ask why I ran? You're already preparing to send me back."

"No, Kina."

"So you are. History repeating itself?"

"Is it?"

"I want to see Olivia."

"Not at this moment."

"Are you enjoying taking your sweet time?" I said. "You know, I've been in the system since I was young. I know your game, copper. You're trying to wind me up, get me jabbering."

Corrigan looked up from the file. She was a little younger than me but no less experienced.

"You're correct, Kina." She picked up her coffee, drank. "You have been in the system since you were young."

Her hair was brown, cut in a short bob. She had typical cop eyes. They didn't miss a thing. Her lips were painted dark red. The colour looked good on her and broke up the drabness of a typical cop suit - black jacket and trousers, white blouse, ID lanyard round her neck. An unusual silver bracelet hung round her left wrist. It was the only jewellery she wore. I liked it, another redeeming factor along with the lipstick.

I didn't know if her sympathy and understanding was genuine. Cops were smart at planting traps. I didn't hate them, they had their place in this world, but I wasn't about to trust one.

I tried to keep quiet, let her talk.

"Your mother brought you to London when you were ten-years-old. No, correction, you were eleven-years-old. This was a year after your natural father, Ruben Samson, was murdered by the IRA."

"It was never proven who killed my dad."

"He was murdered for being a thief, yes?"

"Yes."

"He was twice warned and eventually hospitalised after a punishment beating but continued to steal from the local community until he was tortured and shot."

"I know my dad's story," I said, quietly

"I'm sorry, it must be painful. I'm sure he was a good man."

Once more there was that sympathy and understanding in her eyes. I couldn't tell if it was fake.

"Your first arrest came in Walthamstow, 1994. You stole a car. You were let off with a warning. There followed a string of offences including vandalism, shoplifting, underage drinking, more vandalism, more shoplifting. You were arrested numerous times but never incarcerated."

Corrigan prodded the file.

"On and on until one of your little gang took an overdose. Georgina Jenkins. She was seventeen years old. That could have been you lying in your own piss and puke."

She'd skilfully subdued me.

"You were in court once more. The judge believed you had been influenced by the older members of the gang you were in."

Silence.

"The judge also believed a custodial sentence would have furthered your criminal career, not tempered it."

Silence.

"I think the judge felt you were a victim rather than a perpetrator. You were given a final chance."

I stared at the tape. Rain poured down. The uniformed copper was motionless at the closed door.

"I was no victim. I made my own choices and they were all wrong ones. I have to live with that."

Corrigan nodded, thoughtfully.

"You stayed out of trouble for several years. By this time your mother had a new husband and you a sister."

"I know my life story."

"Tell me about Billy Ingram, Kina."

"Am I under arrest?"

"No, you're helping with a murder inquiry."

I sneered. "Billy's long dead."

"Then he won't mind us talking about him."

"I don't think so."

"Do you want to be placed under arrest for fleeing a crime scene? Or do you want to help your sister?"

"I want to help."

"Then let's talk about Billy Ingram."

"Can I smoke?"

"No."

"Jesus." I glared at her. "You know what happened between us. You know how it ended."

"I know that Billy Ingram turned you into a punching bag."

"I told you, I made my own choices."

"There's nothing wrong with admitting you were a victim."

" _I'm no victim_. I did wrong. I went to prison."

"On one occasion, Ingram broke your arm and fractured two ribs. You spent time in Newham General."

I turned silent again.

"Another time you were admitted with..." She stopped, abruptly, and looked over her shoulder at the male officer by the door. "You can leave us for now."

He left, without a word. She spoke into the tape, indicating he was no longer in the room.

"No more of that," I said.

"He took a life that hadn't even been born," said Corrigan.

I picked up the coffee cup, drained it. My hand was trembling. "No more," I said.

"It's hard to understand why you were even convicted after the level of abuse you suffered."

"Well, I was, so that's it. I don't want to talk about him anymore. Billy is the past. I have a new life now."

Corrigan nodded. "You rent a room above a shop and you work for Fast Genie, a commercial cleaning company. Limited contact with your family since leaving prison. No social life. No online presence. No boyfriend. No girlfriend." She paused. "It's not much of a new life, is it?"

"Right."

"You seem directionless, Kina."

"Thanks, you're sending my confidence sky high."

"How were things between Simon Farley and your sister?" she asked, suddenly.

"Fine."

"Any arguments?"

"No."

"Falling out?"

"No."

"Affairs?"

"I know where you're going with all this. I stabbed Billy so I stabbed Simon."

"You did more than stab Billy Ingram."

I clenched my fists, and then slowly opened them. "He used to threaten people with that gun. I shot him six times. Your lot said he was dead after the first one. None of what he did got proved in court. _That's_ why they gave me eighteen years."

I shook my head.

"I didn't stab Simon Farley."

"I'm certain you didn't. But Olivia..."

"Are you fucking kidding me? They were planning on having kids."

"There's a lot of tragedy surrounding your family, Kina. And you and your sister have been exposed to considerable violence."

"Me, not Olivia. And Simon wasn't abusing her. She would've told me."

"Did you confide in a friend or family member when you were being beaten?"

"I want to go. Now. Right fucking now. Charge me or let me leave."

"Once I confirm your whereabouts. Would you like another coffee?"

"No. What do you mean confirm my whereabouts?"

"We have an officer checking with Fast Genie at this moment."

"Great, thanks for that. My stepdad lined that job up for me. You go snooping round asking questions and implicating me in a crime and I'm finished."

"I'm sorry, but we need confirmation to eliminate you from the inquiry."

"Of course you do."

The rain never stopped. Nor did the questions. Corrigan went round and round but I shut down. I'd picked up a few bits of information hanging on the close. Now I got a little bit more in the hours that passed.

Olivia was a trainee stylist in Romford. I already knew that. What I didn't know was her movements up to Simon getting stabbed. Now it was time for Corrigan to fill in the blanks for me. Olivia had finished work at 5pm. She'd met two friends at a Thai restaurant. The three of them left approximately 6.45pm and moved onto a local wine bar. One friend left at 8.15pm. Olivia and the other friend left shortly after 9pm. There were confirmed sightings of her arriving home at 10pm and this had been backed up by the regular minicab company she'd used. Simon had gone out after 11pm. Olivia could've followed him. She had an open window.

"Your sister claims to have fallen asleep once arriving home."

Silence.

"She doesn't remember Simon leaving the house."

Silence.

"She only remembers the moment he returned – fatally wounded."

Silence.

"Why did she call you first?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't she call her mum or dad?"

"I don't know."

"How well did you know Simon Farley?"

"I only met him twice. I liked him."

"Did he ever visit you in prison?"

"No."

"Write to you? Send you anything?"

"No."

"Did Olivia ever bring him to visit?"

"For the love of God, no, no and no. Look, why aren't you out there looking for the fucker that did this? He's probably moving all the stolen gear whilst you're sitting here wasting time."

It was then another detective entered the interview room and announced himself for the tape. He was there to confirm my alibi.

"Let's start again," said Corrigan. "Did Olivia talk to you about the arguments she and Simon were having?"

I sighed. "No."

FOUR

It was light when they released me.

Mum was out by the front desk, sat in a chair, hands folded, scowling. She was probably more annoyed with me than anything else. Simon was dead but I would still be at the top of her shit list. Maybe I needed to be. I don't know.

The desk officer gave her a warm look. She was old and it had been a long night; he knew there was more than one victim in any crime. All I got was an icy stare. We went through the door, down the steps, onto the pavement.

The two of us stood on the street, undecided. Cold rain leaked from a dull sky. It was a typical late November morning.

I shivered, head fogged with memories. I blinked away tears and tiredness and lit a cigarette.

Mum's tongue whipped at me. "Why did they arrest you? What carry on are you up to now? How in God's name are you mixed up in this?"

She was in her sixties, proud and strong-willed, raised in Belfast, a city of borders and colours I never understood or accepted. I mumbled an abject reply that fuelled her temper. She couldn't believe Simon was dead and she was terrified for Olivia. Mum had lived through the worse of the troubles back home, she knew all about injustice. I kept silent. She burnt strips off me, anger in her voice, only sadness in her eyes.

"Why are they still holding her?" she said. "I don't get it. Is it because of you?"

I wanted to comfort her but I didn't know how. I dragged on my cigarette, hoping the ground would swallow me up. I'd never been a parent. I never would, thanks to Billy. The pain of a parent was a mystery to me. I knew only the pain of a daughter who'd failed, over and over again.

The street lamps switched off. I could feel the steady vibration of music as the city stirred into life.

Cars zipped by, splashing through puddles. _It would be so easy. One step and the screaming in my head would be over._

"Douglas has a flight in one hour," said Mum.

It was out of her system. She'd said what needed saying. Now she sheltered under her umbrella, reading a text message.

I must have been frowning. "He's in Holland. I told you that, Kina." She hadn't but it was pointless to argue. My stepdad was a software programmer... or something. I wasn't really sure but the contracts his company acquired could see him in Derby one day and Denmark the next.

She pocketed the phone, raised her scarf against the brisk wind. "Are you coming or not?"

She was renewed. I wiped a sleeve across my eyes. She reached out a hand, patted me on the arm. I recoiled at her touch.

"You're not the wee girl that went away, are you now?"

I wanted her to see my scars, hear the stories I had to tell. I wanted to collapse in her arms, sob.

"No," I said.

"But today isn't about you. We've had enough days about you, Kina. We need to put our heads together and help Olivia."

She beckoned me along the street.

"There's a cafe round the corner. We could do with some breakfast inside us."

I hesitated.

"Are you going to stand there blaming yourself for all the woe in the world?"

No, I'll let you do that, Mum.

"C'mon, Kina."

We left Olivia behind; exhausted and wide-eyed and still answering questions. We walked in silence.

A young guy stepped out of a block of flats. He came toward us, taking up most of the pavement with his swagger and gold. He was black, six foot, good-looking, head bent toward his phone, the screen lit in his dark glasses. There was a scar beneath his left ear, about three inches long. His hair was styled. His clothes were expensive. I'd never seen him before but I knew him inside out. He was the cause of locked doors and terrified residents.

His car was at the kerb. A land cruiser, the size of a tank, black with red markings and tinted windows. He dug out his keys, unlocked it, without taking his eyes from his phone.

I saw the collision we were all heading for. Mum veered a little, out of his way. I didn't make any adjustment. He clipped me hard and I rolled across the width of the pavement.

I threw out my arms. "What's your problem, man?"

He ignored me, got in, fired the engine. Music thudded from his sound system. I held my spot, unafraid.

"Away with you, Kina," said Mum. "Don't be starting."

The player dropped his window, grinned from ear to ear.

"Sorry about that, girl."

"Don't fucking _girl_ me."

He lowered his shades down his nose, stared for a moment, like I had the nerve to breathe the same air as him.

He kissed his teeth, then shaped a gun with his right hand and shot me down as he screeched away.

"Prick," I said.

I shrugged him off, followed Mum along the street.

Bins overflowed, rain-sodden rubbish stirred in the gutter. There were flats covered in graffiti. There were lawns with wooden benches and one area dotted with fast-food wrappers, empty cans, cigarette ends and condoms. A delivery van slowed and parked, news radio on loud as the driver clambered out, package under his arm.

There were residents arriving home from work, walking from the station, climbing off buses or pulling up in cars, and there were plenty more preparing to leave; lights on behind half-lowered blinds, the rustle of cereal, the ping of the toaster, the kettle rattling as it boiled. All at once I began to sweat. I had been in a box for eleven years. Sometimes the pace of London overwhelmed me.

I unzipped my jacket and hooded fleece, a ribbed white vest top beneath, desperate to feel the wind on my hot skin.

The delivery driver was back in his van, window down, leering at my chest. Guy looked a creep. _What the fuck?_

The van tore away and we turned the corner. A row of shops lurked behind closed metal shutters. There were grubby-looking flats above. Shouting came from one of them. Traffic slewed by, rain shimmering in headlights. The smell of cooking was in the air. Mum pointed at the cafe. A taxi office was next door with stools outside, no one sitting on them.

Mum went into the cafe, placed her handbag on a vacant table. She unbuttoned her coat, hung it on the back of a chair. She sat down, took out her phone. She would wait for me to order. I stayed outside, smoking, watching her through a curtained window. Her daughters were aging her.

I turned my back.

Across the road was the shell of a new office building behind temporary fencing. A man was wandering around, yellow hard-hat on.

I flicked away my half-smoked cigarette, pushed open the café door and went to the counter.

A black-haired man took the order. He had light olive skin, thick eyebrows and a crooked nose. He looked cold. There was a heater on but it wasn't throwing out much heat. I went and sat with Mum, drumming my fingers on the table without thought. There were framed photographs of the Mediterranean hanging on the wall. A beach would be perfect right now. Olivia and me. Not that I had a passport or any savings.

The guy fetched our order of bacon rolls and a pot of tea for two. I smeared red sauce across the meat. Mum used brown. I made the tea. I took mine strong, no milk and two sugars.

It was Mum who broke the cramped silence. She dug into her handbag and slid a bunch of keys across the table.

"Spare keys for Olivia and Simon's house."

I frowned at her.

"I want you to pack a bag for her. She won't want to go back there, Kina. She can stay with me and Dad."

"The cops will still be at the house. I won't be allowed in."

"Sure, then go this afternoon or tonight. She'll want fresh clothes, so she will."

I scooped them up, slurped tea.

"I still don't know why they're keeping her," I said. "She's a victim, not a suspect. I mean..."

She talked right across me. "And have a look around when you're there, do you understand me, Kina?"

"No." I put my cup down. "What do you mean?"

"He had a habit lately, Simon, of popping out down the shop at night. I had that kind of carry on with your father."

"The guy does music. He's at work all day."

She gave me a look. She had a theory and I had no right getting in the way of it.

"Olivia told me he often went for chocolate bars. But he never walked, Kina, he always took the car. That night he walked. Now why in God's name would he walk? He hated walking anywhere and especially around there. Sure, they both did so what was that all about?"

"That copper Corrigan reckons there was an argument and Simon went out for a bit of fresh air. But Olivia told them they didn't argue and she went asleep when she got home from the wine bar."

"So one of them is lying. You just have a wee nosy when you're in there."

"I thought you liked Simon."

"He was a decent young fella, sure enough. He treated Olivia right. A good boy. I took to him at once. Not like Billy, he was a nasty shit. I told you at the time but, oh no, you knew better. There was never any telling you. You get that stubbornness from your father. Do you know that?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Just make sure Simon is all I thought he was. That he wasn't mixed up with things. A lot of black boys get stabbed round here. I don't want the police getting lazy."

Mum knew all about the cops. Back in Belfast, here in London. She didn't hate them; she'd battered me once for throwing bricks at RUC carriers as they'd streamed through our neighbourhood, eight-years-old, the crazy-haired girl standing with the mob, hurling rubble.

"You know how it is, Kina. We've seen it all before. Innocent families behind bars, killers strolling as politicians. Sure, it happens all over, so it does."

"OK, OK. I don't want another lecture."

She smiled at me, a light flickering in her eyes.

"Good girl now."

Two women breezed in, one black, one white, wet heels clicking across the worn floor. They were carrying laptop bags. They pulled out chairs on the other side of the café. At a glance, they looked in their thirties. The black woman had gold-coloured hair. She waved at the man behind the counter. He began to rustle up a regular order as she sat, facing my direction. The white woman had her back to me as she shrugged off a heavy coat. She wore a roll-neck jumper under a grey trouser suit. Her hair was brown, side-parted, cut short. I couldn't see her face but I was certain I knew her. I turned away, an uneasy feeling in my gut.

Mum whispered across the table at me. "Kina don't be starting anything. You've an arse-ache face on you this morning."

Jesus, she had a way of reducing me to a ten-year-old.

The black woman with the dyed hair kept glancing at me. It was starting to piss me off. I didn't have a long fuse. I hardened my eyes, twisted my mouth and glared back at her. Intimidated, she hastily ducked. I looked once more at the second woman. She still had her back to me.

"Kina, will you catch yourself on, girl? We need to focus on helping your sister."

Mum was allowed to call me _girl_. I ignored her. Sometimes it was best.

The café door opened once more and a crowd of men streamed inside, talking loud, carrying newspapers and wearing high-visibility jackets. Two young men followed in behind them. The place was beginning to fill up. Two teenage girls in white aprons had appeared behind the counter. I could no longer see the gold-haired woman and her companion. The man behind the counter kept glancing over at us. He knew we'd finished and he wanted the table.

"I need a smoke," I said.

The rain had stopped. The shops were beginning to open. I shook out a cigarette, lit up, Mum glaring at me.

"I'm going back to the police station," she said.

"I'll come with you."

An inquiring voice suddenly called out. "Kina?"

We both looked round. It was the woman from the café, the one in the roll-neck and grey suit. The air was punched from my lungs.

" _Jade..."_

My heart exploded. No, it wasn't possible. A thousand words entered my head. I couldn't pin down one of them.

"It's me," she said.

I knew it was her. _Of course I knew it was her_. And she was no longer the tearaway. She'd transformed; stylish and confident and more beautiful than ever but somehow no different. I couldn't breathe. I _really_ couldn't breathe.

"I'm glad you remember me." She stepped forward, clung onto me. I dangled like a rag doll as she squeezed. "It's been too long. Was that your Mum?"

Was?

Mum was rounding the corner, heading for the police station; that determined walk of hers.

"Yeah."

"She hasn't changed a bit." She chuckled. "What's happening with you? When did you get out?"

"About three or four months ago."

"I didn't know." Sadness touched her eyes. She lowered her voice. "It's good to see you. It really is."

I hadn't seen her since the trial. She must have read my mind.

"I wanted to come and see you," she said, getting close. The smell of her perfume tickled my nostrils. "I'd find excuses not to. I was so scared. Billy's gang were always around, making threats."

There was too much to say, no time to say it in, the moment was slipping away, sand through the fingers. I had to find the right words, _the_ _right words,_ to keep her rooted to the spot. She couldn't disappear on me again. I thought of how close we used to be, how close we might have been, how close I'd wanted us to become. I never told her and she never saw it. I don't know. It was so long ago. People always talk about _the one that got away._ That was Jade. She had no idea how many times the thought of her face had pulled me through the most desperate and miserable times inside.

"What's with the suit?"

All this time, all what I felt and that was all I could think of saying? Fuck...

"I put it behind me and got an education." A bus went by. "Listen, where are you staying?"

I told her. We swapped numbers.

"I'll call you," she said. "We can fix up a night out. I think we both deserve that."

I nodded, said nothing.

FIVE

Mr Lakhami was the owner of Fast Genie. His heavily-accented voice came down the line rapid-fire. I couldn't understand half of what he was saying but I got the gist of it and the gist of it sucked.

"I'm sorry, Miss McKevie. I cannot keep you on. No, no, I am sorry."

Perched on the edge of the sofa, cigarette smoke curling from my mouth, I thought of Jade as I strained to hear him.

"I am strict about this kind of thing."

"But I'm not involved in anything. I swear it."

The line had a curious echo. I had the horrible feeling he was on the toilet.

"I cannot have an employee mixed up in crime." A spinning roll holder confirmed it. I grimaced. "Newham has become a bad place over the years. It never used to be like this. Not when I first came here."

"Mr Lakhami, I'm a good worker. I'm always on time. I never take more for my break..."

There was movement. He was getting off the toilet. I heard a flush. The rush of the cistern filled the line.

"... business to take care of," he was saying. "I have customers. It is not personal. I am sorry about this."

"I was recommended to you. Surely that counts for something?"

"Your father is a good man. He implemented our computer system. I am sorry I cannot help more."

"He's my stepfather," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Mr Lakhami, I need the work. _Please_. I have all the qualifications. I'm no skiver."

There was a pause on the line. He was debating it. Then he said, "I am sorry, Miss McKevie. I mean that sincerely." He took a deep breath. "It is a competitive field. I cannot be in the newspapers. I could lose accounts over something this simple. I do wish you luck in finding something else. Send my best wishes to your father."

I tossed the mobile, stabbed out my cigarette, paced. Arms folded, I chewed a nail, distracted.

There was movement downstairs. It was Mr Bhola. The flat I rented was above his off-license. He arrived punctually at 9am, opened the shop at 11am and didn't close until 10pm. The guy put in some long hours. He was Asian, mid-fifties. He had family, a wife, a son and a couple of daughters who helped out, but it was mostly Mr Bhola, on his own, hour after hour.

As well as drink, he sold food, snacks, DVDs, stationary and toys. The shop was a little claustrophobic with spinners and racks. There was always stock to unpack and price. A room out back was his stockroom and overflowed with it. His wife rolled her eyes and groaned at him whenever he returned from the cash and carry. The guy was obsessed with it. The moment the shop was empty I would hear him tearing at a box and then it would be the repetitive click of a price gun.

There was a side door at the rear of the shop and it led into a narrow hallway with a front door and stairs up to my flat. It was supposed to remain locked but Mr Bhola used it all the time and had taken to stacking his excess stock there without asking. I didn't want to complain. It was a decent flat. But it meant I usually tripped over a shrink-wrapped box at least once a day to reach the street.

I raked my fingers through my hair, shook out the anger. I switched on the radio, a regular drum and bass station I listened to. Sounds kicked around, chilling me out at once.

There were voices on the pavement outside. I peered out a window. A group of kids were giving Mr Bhola a hard time. He was standing in the doorway, refusing to allow them inside. They looked about eight or nine years old. I'd seen them hanging round before. They never appeared to be at school.

Mr Bhola's voice boomed. He was fearless. The kids ran, shouting abuse as they fled. One of them held his ground. He was a little older, possibly eleven, sprawled on a bike the wrong size for him, no doubt stolen. He wore a baseball cap and tracksuit and expensive trainers, a sour expression on his acne-ridden face tucked inside a hood. He'd been around before. I'd dubbed him Acne-Boy.

The stand-off didn't last. He made a few hand signs as he pedalled away, pocketing his phone. He was a typical bully, sitting back pulling the strings. I thought back to when I was ten-years-old and was jumped by a gang of kids on my way home from school. I normally walked home with a few friends but that afternoon none of them were around. I found out later that the beating had been planned and my friends had been scared off.

The gang that cornered me were mixed; boys, girls, Catholic, Protestant. What went down wasn't about the religious divide through our city and our country. This was all about colour. I knew all of them. I sat with some of them in my lessons and at lunch. It didn't matter. I was kicked and punched to the ground. They doused me with bottles of shampoo and detergent, jeered on by a ringleader of about twelve or thirteen years old.

I swore that day I would have revenge on that boy. More than the gang that had humiliated me. The ringleader wasn't from our school. He was from the next school up. I would be there in September but I wasn't prepared to wait that long. So I took a knife from our kitchen, one of Dad's meat knives, and went to the street he lived in. I hung around for hours but never saw him. Trudging home through a typically windy and rainy Belfast day, I thought of Dad, dead in the ground, murdered because of his ways, his colour, and I tossed the knife, resolving not to follow in his footsteps.

I turned eleven that year but Mum never enrolled me in the next school. We moved to East London and I never saw the bully again.

Picking up the house keys Mum had given me, I turned them over in my hands. There was something going round in my head and I couldn't pin it down. It was then my mobile rang for a second time and the thought was gone.

"Kina, it's me, Jade. How are you? You're not at work are you?"

"No." I lit a fresh cigarette. "I work nights. Well, I used to. I got the sack."

"Why?"

I gave her a watered-down version. The line went quiet for a few moments.

"Don't get sucked back in, Kina."

I listened, saying nothing.

"You're vulnerable right now. You need friends, family."

I kept listening.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you clean?"

"I'm clean."

She paused. I could hear an office in the background. She spoke again. "It must have been hard getting clean inside."

"It didn't happen overnight."

I didn't know what else to say to her. The mobile was sweaty. I swapped hands. "I need to go, Jade. I gotta sort out some stuff."

"I still can't believe it. I'd heard there'd been a murder on the radio but no names were given. If you need anything, Kina, anything at all, you let me know. We drifted, I know that, but I'm here for you. The past is the past."

I needed her to stop talking about it.

"What do you do now?"

"I'm in social services. I'm a social worker."

I smiled, wryly.

"Look," she continued. "How do you fancy a night out this Friday? We can catch up."

"Sure."

We made plans and then I hung up.

I took a long shower and let the tears come. I was drying when my mobile rang – the cops had released Olivia.

* * *

There was a lot of crying.

And pleading.

And then more crying.

Mum curled an arm around Olivia. They were on the sofa. I was sat at the dining table, unsure what to say or do.

I stared at my sister, a child when I'd been sent away, now a grown woman, broken into bits. She'd known what I'd done but not really why and hadn't understood the gravity of it. The reasons came as she got older, during her teens, and they were as confusing and emotionally distressing as the hormonal change she was undertaking. It became too much for her and she rejected me; I was a monster, a perpetrator of a heinous crime. It didn't last. Mum chalked it down as Olivia's rebellious spell. That had been timid stuff compared to the shit I'd put Mum and Douglas through.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without him," she wailed. Her face was ashen. "There were so many things he wanted to do."

Her letters had been a lifeline inside. She'd tell me about school, exams, ambitions, boys, home, shopping, family. She wrote for years. No one gets it unless they've been there. It must seem a chore to sit at a table and write a few words when you're free to pick and choose what you do with the hours given to you. But they are like pure gold when you're banged up year after year. I still have her letters. All of them. I never got rid of a single one. Olivia came through for me then and I had to do the same for her now - but I didn't know what she needed from me.

"Why would someone do this to us? Simon wasn't in any gang. He didn't even like fighting."

We'd met up a handful of times since getting out. She always had a smile. Except that last time when she bought me lunch. _She hadn't been smiling then. Something had been wrong._

I swallowed hard. My little sister was now looking in on life, no longer part of it. I knew what that was like. People go through life, days blurring, routines unfolding, things just ticking over, but never seeing it, never getting or understanding how good it is. Something like this puts you outside all that is normal. Now you peer in, you live on the fringes, all the things you like and love fade, and you wonder how you are ever going to be normal again.

"What am I going to do?" Her world had collapsed. She held Mum, sobbed. "What am I going to do?"

I held back my own tears because I was still there, on the fringes, pretending to live a life and now my sister was with me and it was wrong, it was so fucking wrong.

* * *

"Why didn't he take the car?" I asked.

We smoked in the back garden. It was good to be outside even though it was cold and the dull sky threatened rain. Mum watched from the kitchen window. I tried to ignore her.

Olivia had grown up in this house, played on this grass in the summer; a picnic with her dolls, running mad with a watering can or sprawled on a big blanket with all her colouring books.

The tears had stopped. Her cheeks were pale, eyes swollen red. She tightened the heavy-knit cardigan around her.

I listened to the throb of traffic, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know," she whispered.

"It was late, dark, and you told me he never walked anywhere."

A column of ash broke away from her cigarette.

"I was dozing on the couch, Kina." Her voice was a long way away. "I'd had a few drinks after work... we had a meal." She glazed over. "I was tired. I got back late. Simon was on his laptop... he was doing promotional work... he had a craving for chocolate... I don't know why he walked."

"Had he been drinking?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, he only drank at weekends."

I dragged hard, watched her closely. She was all over the place. No wonder it had taken so long with the cops. But there was more. It lurked behind her eyes. The cops would've seen it, kept going at her. I couldn't dig too much, not yet.

"Simon kissed me on the head and said he wouldn't be long. He said he was going to the shop."

I nodded. "Was he involved in anything?"

She didn't answer. I rolled my head, licked my lips. Someone was in the garden next door, clattering around.

"Olivia, snap out of it. Was Simon mixed up in any illegal shit?"

"Like you?"

I deserved it. I said nothing. The clattering in the adjacent garden became subdued. Next door had tuned into our conversation.

I pulled Olivia close.

"Do you want the cops to stick this on you? You need to get your story straight or you'll be heading where I've come from. You get me?"

Tears bubbled across her eyes. I didn't want to see her cry.

"Simon wasn't into anything. He worked hard."

She hooked her arms onto me. I froze. I didn't know how to hug her back or tell her it was going to be OK.

Her frame rattled against me. I shook her free.

"You need to think ..."

"Leave me alone, Kina."

"I'm sorry..." I began, but she turned her back on me, went inside.

Mum stared through the kitchen window, disappointment in her face. That was nothing new.

But it didn't matter because I knew one thing right there and then about the murder of Simon Farley.

I knew Olivia was lying about that night.

SIX

2.12 am.

I was still awake, staring at the bedroom ceiling. I would've have finished my shift twelve minutes ago. Now I didn't have any work. I'd left Olivia with Mum and spent the afternoon dropping in a few places. I'd come up with nothing. I'd checked out the local paper and jobcentre and still nothing. All I had now was time to think and that unsettled me because thinking time usually became remembering time and I didn't want to remember any shit from the past - and the present was pretty crappy anyway. I tried to close it all down as quickly as it erupted in my head. But I couldn't shut it out permanently.

I tried to convince myself that Olivia had been confused, grief-stricken, but I could see it in her eyes – she was hiding something about the night Simon had been killed.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the thin carpet. Smoke curled toward a curtained window that was half-open. The sounds of the city filtered in. It was a cold night but dry. There was a whiff of curry in the air but the takeaway next door had been closed since midnight. Maybe the smell was in the curtains from when Mr Bhola had lived up here with his family. I couldn't imagine him and his wife and all those kids crammed in here. Now they lived in a three-bedroom house round the corner.

Staring off into space, I reached under the baggy T shirt I wore, and idly scratched at old scars.

I got up, went through to the kitchen. It was tiny with a sink, a few cupboards and a cooker that I'd never used. I took a small pizza box from the fridge and leaned against the counter, chewing the last slice. Finished, I stuffed the empty box in the bin and put the kettle on to boil. I was smart enough to recognise the signs of restlessness, stupid enough to have eaten because I could've gone for a run or worked out. Now I would have to wait until the food digested or risk cramping.

A weak and ugly thought squirmed into my brain. _Go back to that place, Kina... where nothing can touch you... when you're unstoppable and invincible..._

No, I was clean yesterday and I'm clean today. I choose the vices I have. They no longer choose me.

I made tea, lit a fresh cigarette, switched on the TV. I kept the sound off, needing only the pictures for company. The living room wasn't much bigger than the kitchen but it was bigger than a prison cell. I kept it clean, no mess, nothing. On a side table was a perfectly neat stack of library books. I picked one up, tried to concentrate.

After all these years, after all this time, Billy and the life he'd given me, the life I'd accepted from him, still clung to me, like an invisible skin, stinking and out of date. I couldn't peel it off, no matter what I did. That cop, Corrigan, had said there was no shame in being a victim. But I was a woman crippled by shame.

I was ashamed at the life I'd lived, ashamed at doing the things I'd done, ashamed at being alongside Billy as he brutalised innocents and corrupted the neighbourhood. He'd turned the Hoppings council estate into a vile place to live. Billy Ingram, a real _badman_ , full of charm and swagger like that arsehole I'd collided with this morning. Billy had it all by the time he cruised onto my radar; money, power, a fearsome rep, and he could snare any woman. I couldn't build a life with Jade and I'd tired of the gay bars and clubs, faces and names I couldn't remember. I convinced myself I loved him and came under his spell, letting him hook me. I eventually fell pregnant, hoping I could change him, reshape our lives, I don't know. But Billy already had four kids and he made certain there wasn't going to be a fifth one.

There hadn't been relentless cruelty from him; guys like Billy are not about that. It had come slowly, bit by bit, insidious, nudging out friends and family, cutting out all and any socialising. He kept me to himself, and when shit went sideways his tone would rise, his hand would swing, and already it was too late.

He was dead eleven years, slashed, stabbed and riddled with bullets, but he still scared me.

I kept thinking I would see him... or his old crew, though they were mostly dead or inside or missing.

I thought of Simon, staggering home with stab wounds, knowing he was dying and trying to make his way back to the place he felt safe, back to the woman he loved.

There was something about Olivia's story that was wrong but I couldn't see it at that moment.

I closed the library book, buried my head in my hands. My mind was spinning. I had to get organised. I had to get routine. I needed a new job or I was gone from this place and on the street.

I lifted my head and looked toward the street, frowning.

What the fuck was that?

I tensed.

Voices, shuffling feet.

I flew back to the bedroom, reached beneath my pillow and drew out an expandable steel baton. I'd had it since getting out. I was taking no chances. I needed something non-lethal to give me an edge.

The shutters over the shop rattled... voices once more, loud and aggressive.

I edged toward the window, snapping off the TV and moving in darkness. A car zipped by, sound system booming and shaking.

It had no effect on whoever was outside. They tried the front door this time – _my front door._

I flicked my wrist, brought the baton to full length. I peered round the curtain, onto the street below.

There was a nearby street lamp and in the glow of orange I counted at least four youths with hoods, caps and masks. I recognised the swagger and build of one of them. It was Acne-Boy. His cronies looked older than the boys who trailed round with him during the day.

I began to sweat. I looked along the street, saw no one around. The rows of terraced houses and local shops were lined in silence, timidly hunched beneath the crumbling outlines of council blocks.

I heard the unmistakable rattle and hiss of a spray can. Acne-Boy was bouncing on his heels, talking non-stop behind the scarf round his face.

" _Yeah, tag that fucker."_

I'd never heard him talk before, only seen him snarl. He had a spiky young voice and I tightened my grip on the baton, wondering if I'd get to silence that mouth.

I headed for the flat door and unlocked it, stomach swirling as it clicked loudly. A narrow flight of stairs ran down toward the street door. There was a single window at shoulder-height, frosted glass eerily discoloured by the glow of the street lamp.

I crossed the box-shaped landing, floorboards creaking. They must have creaked a hundred times during the day but I'd never noticed until now.

Voices grew louder and clearer as I went down the stairs. Back against the wall, I smoothed past the locked door into the shop and Mr Bhola's shrink-wrapped goods from the cash and carry.

The spray can had been put away. The passageway was plunged into darkness as the youths crowded at the front door, blocking out the street light.

Acne-Boy snarled.

Then the door shook violently as he drove his boot against it.

I recoiled.

He slammed his boot into it a second time.

I glanced at the pile of stock, wondering whether to heft it in front of the door but I doubted there was time.

The door rattled a third time. Wood splintered onto the carpet. Another kick would send it crashing open.

Then the youths parted, suddenly, and there was a burst of conversation followed by peels of laughter.

I remained pinned against the wall, ready to crack the baton into the face of the first youth to come through.

I kept waiting, pulse racing. Another car zipped by and in the distance an unrelated siren wailed.

I glimpsed a flare of light and then the letterbox rattled and something lit was pushed through. The youths ran. I sprang back up the stairs, recognising the package as a cluster of fireworks.

I stumbled into the flat and slammed the door as the fireworks began to explode.

"Fuckers," I whispered, collapsing on the floor.

SEVEN

I met up with Olivia a few days later. She'd moved back in with Mum and Douglas. I couldn't blame her for not wanting to go back to the house.

They were both there when I arrived. Olivia was upstairs, finishing getting ready. I asked them how she'd been coping. Douglas made a pot of tea, his answer, his way, but Mum had plenty to say. I blocked out a lot of it because somehow I was still to blame. I'd never understood this side to her, always needing to pick a fight with me, no matter what the circumstances. I kept thinking I must provoke her in some way. I'd thought that since childhood. But I could never nail it down. I gave up with her in the end. It wasn't worth it - I didn't have the energy.

There was the creak of footsteps above. Olivia was in her old room. My old room was up there, too. I wanted to see it but naturally told myself I didn't. Besides, it had probably been turned into a guest room with all of my old stuff dumped.

I loitered in the kitchen, listening to the kettle. Mum was silent, having blown off all her steam. Douglas was a meek observer. He was grey-haired and narrow-faced with pensive brown eyes. He wore plain clothes, untroubled by style, corduroys and a check shirt beneath a buttoned-up cardigan. He never appeared to spend money on himself – it went on Mum and Olivia and the house.

It was a decent enough place, in a good part of Stratford, a three-bed semi with a gravel-covered front garden and plenty of lawn out back. I'd been a teenager when he'd come on the scene. We'd argued but I'd never hated him. He hadn't tried to replace my real dad; no one could, then or now. He'd visited me inside, whenever he could, even though we had no real connection. I hadn't forgotten that.

He was staring at a cluster of framed family pictures on the wall as he waited for the kettle to boil, no doubt recalling simpler times. There was one of me as a teenager, looking respectable in school uniform.

"I'm smiling," I said. "You must have spent ages finding that one."

An incredible sadness descended on me. My shoulders sagged. My eyes watered. I wanted to run. This always happened round Douglas. He was so thoughtful and quiet he _made_ me talk and usually what I said was nonsense.

"Those times weren't so bad," he said.

He'd been married before, had a few kids he didn't see. There were more sides to him but I'd never bothered to discover them. I wonder if Mum had, between ranting at me.

The kettle clicked off. He poured into a pot decorated with farmyard animals and began to stir the bags.

"I spoke with Rajeev yesterday." He carried the teapot to the kitchen table. He saw I was frowning. "Mr Bhola."

My heart skipped a beat. "Why?"

"I told him you'd lost your job."

Oh, shit!

He set out cups and saucers. I silently fumed as he fetched milk, sugar and a packet of biscuits.

"I let him know about Simon's murder. I reassured him you weren't in any trouble and that Fast Genie had no grounds to let you go."

I kept listening.

"Rajeev mentioned the incident at the shop with those lads and the fireworks."

"It was nothing."

"Well, he didn't think so. In fact, he's going to waive your rent this month."

"What?"

"He reckons he should have replaced that street door years ago, made the property more secure before letting it. He was very upset that you might have been attacked. And he said you were very helpful in cleaning his shutter and the hallway."

Mum bustled in. Douglas poured the tea.

"But I wouldn't mention it to him. It might embarrass him."

I leaned against the wall, hands in my pockets, a grown woman in her thirties, bailed out by her stepdad.

"I'll have things sorted by the end of the week," I said. "He won't need to do that again."

"Sure, you'll find something soon enough," said Mum. She slid a cup toward me. "As long as you keep looking."

"What'd you say that for?" I snapped.

I fell for it every time. She'd already worked me over and it didn't take much to provoke me a second time. I'd worked on anger and temper and all that shit inside, classes, books and meditation, but it was useless when I tackled Mum. I had no time for veiled talk and sly digs. She knew all the buttons and pressed then whenever the fancy took her.

"Olivia," said Douglas, and the argument stopped abruptly.

My sister stood in the doorway, staring at the three of us.

* * *

I was relieved to get out of there.

We could've had lunch at the sparkling new Westfield shopping centre, new to me, anyway, not to Olivia, it had been thrown up five years ago, part of Stratford City, but it was too noisy and crowded for my head.

Instead we took a train to Ilford, one of my old haunts. Through the rain-streaked carriage I saw rubbish-choked verges topped with a familiar landscape of estates and tower blocks. We flashed past retail parks brimming with shoppers and roads bogged down in heavy traffic.

There were buildings on the skyline I didn't recognise, more development during my time in prison. It was like seeing the city for the first time, although I was no longer the curly-haired mouthpiece from the streets of Belfast.

I closed my eyes for a moment, tuned into the rhythm of the train. It was strangely comforting, hypnotic. I was still angry at Mum but regretted the choice things I'd said to her.

I recalled her visiting me inside, even when Douglas was away, making that long trip on her own - eleven years from eighteen is a hell of a stretch for the ones left behind, a sentence in itself, their lives placed on hold. A lot of women I'd known had been abandoned by husbands and boyfriends, parents and children, the years too great a toll on them. Mum's devotion should've told me she loved me but I was never sure - they were words we didn't exchange.

Lost in thought, I dug and scraped at the past, picking a time when Dad was alive and Mum wasn't always at me.

I remembered our last holiday as a family. I was seven. We'd gone up by train to a seaside resort called Portrush. We'd been a few times before. Dad had booked a small caravan with a view of the sea. There was a path to the beach through the dunes and a couple of shops and a play area for the kids.

Dad disappeared the first night we got there, leaving us money for the week. Mum took it out on me. I didn't care. The sun shone, I made holiday friends and swam in the sea. But at night, alone in a narrow wooden bunk, the old metal caravan creaking, the crash of waves against the shore, ghosts and goblins lurking outside, I fell asleep crying, missing him, never understanding why he went, wondering why Mum always battered me for it.

Nothing was said when Dad collected us at the end of the week. It was the last holiday we had.

The train pulled into the station. I opened my eyes, waited a moment. Olivia was numb beside me.

We hustled through the ticket hall, emerging on a crowded high street. Shops were hung with decorations, bright and sparkly. There was a noticeable police presence and Olivia appeared to shrink toward me because of it. The police were nothing to do with her. I suddenly realised Christmas was bearing down. I guessed the extra patrols were the beginning of a deterrent against the increase in pickpockets and muggers.

I hadn't been in Ilford since getting released. It looked more ragged, litter strewn and over-populated than I remembered. The gutters bubbled with dirty rain water and the stench turned my stomach. I asked Olivia about a nightclub I used to rave in. She told me it had closed down. I nodded, saying nothing.

Grey rain sheeted down as we crossed the road. We were hemmed in by mothers with plastic-covered pushchairs, little ones inside, tiny hats on tiny heads.

We disappeared inside a shopping centre. Carols were playing. Decorations were strung across the courts. The shops were expensive and shiny. _I was an alien in an alien world as I trailed beside her._

We took a plate-glass lift to the second floor.

"I can imagine you coming here a lot," I said.

She nodded, but didn't answer. She looked pale, dazed, but no longer on the verge of tears. The shock had gone. It was all painfully real now. She was outside looking in and it was an awful place to exist. It would take a long time for her to cross back over into normal life. She might never. She might get caught in the middle, stay there, float and drift. She'd been the girl with the half-sister in prison. Now she was the girl with the murdered boyfriend. Her own identity was fading fast.

I wondered if she'd spoken with Simon's family. I didn't know anything about them or his ex-girlfriend and their kid. I wondered how they were coping. _Happy Christmas, Daddy's dead._ I knew that pain only too well. Nothing seemed to be happening with the case. The papers had already dropped the story. A black man stabbed to death on a London street. I guessed they were tired of writing that headline.

"You look better," I said.

She did; a smattering of makeup, hair washed and styled, expensive clothes, bag and accessories. I must have looked like a down and out walking with her, someone she'd picked up sleeping rough on the street. My dark hair was scrappily tied back, wild curly strands escaping here and there. I wore no makeup. My outfit was a pair of cheap trainers, cheap jeans, a sweatshirt with the hood down and a jacket.

The lift opened with a hiss and we stepped out onto a walkway overlooking the courts below. The balconies were entwined with garlands and there were Christmas trees dotted about.

I followed her into a department store, folding inwardly as we picked our way past counters stacked with gift sets and special offers. There were women with beautiful skin and poised looks, layers of makeup, clouds of perfume, suits and white blouses and silk neck scarves. I felt their eyes and judgement and knew I deserved it all.

The heating had been cranked up. It was far too hot. No one else looked as if they were overheating but my skin itched and beads of sweat rolled from my armpits. I wanted to be outside in the rain, jacket off, walking brisk. I knew they were all staring at me. I didn't belong in here. They knew I was off the street. They could smell the stench of prison.

I told Olivia I needed the toilet. Crashing through a wooden door, I went to the sink, ran the tap, and splashed water. I didn't look in the mirror. I didn't owe my reflection a damn thing.

I'd served time in two prisons before getting paroled. The bulk of my sentence had been inside Holloway until it closed down. Prison becomes part of you - you become part of it. You adjust. You learn that this is your new world. You learn the rules and how to survive. And when it's over, when you're done surviving and living with the shit you did that put you in this place, they open the gate and push you into a world that you no longer recognise or understand or feel you deserve to be a member of. I suddenly thought of Jade. I was supposed to meet up with her tonight. _What kind of friendship could I offer her? What kind of friendship did she want? I couldn't even handle being round my own sister._

Olivia...

I came out of the toilets. "Are you OK?" she asked.

She looked genuinely worried, and a bit scared at being left on her own.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" I said.

She didn't answer.

"This isn't about me. I'm gonna help you get through this, Olivia."

"Let's get a table. I didn't eat yesterday."

We went into the store restaurant and ordered jacket potato with beans and a pot of tea for two.

At our table, surrounded by voices and phones, Olivia was reluctant to talk so I filled the silence with what had happened at the flat.

"Mr Bhola is getting a new door put in. He won't call the police. He said Acne-Boy and his cronies have been terrorising the local shops for months since they got banned from Westfield. There wasn't much damage inside, the fireworks just burned out, and I cleaned all the crap off his shutter."

Olivia nodded, a stream of butter gushing along her knife as she cut into her baked potato.

A six-year-old boy with dreadlocks scampered by, brightly-coloured action figure in his raised hand.

"Have you heard anything from the cops?"

She didn't answer. I looked at her. She was hopeless at hiding stuff. _Something had happened._

"Olivia?"

"We have to go to the police station this afternoon."

"What do they want?"

"More questions."

"But you told them everything, right? Right?"

She took a deep breath.

"They found the knife used to kill Simon. I recognised it, Kina, it was one of ours."

EIGHT

The table went silent.

The dreadlocked boy with the action figure wheeled by again, a big smile across his innocent face.

"Where did they find it?" I asked.

"Near the footbridge where he was attacked. It had blood on it." She reflected on her words. "I can't believe he's gone, Kina."

I lifted the teapot, topped up our cups. I tore open a sugar sachet, tipped it in, stirred, the head of the spoon scraping the cup.

"They brought it in a plastic bag. They took me back to the house with it. His blood is still on the carpet, Kina, where he died. I thought the police would clean it up." She shook her head. "What am I going to do about the carpet?"

"Forget about the carpet," I said, gently. "What about the knife? Tell me about the knife."

She came back to me. "Dad called our solicitor and the police searched the kitchen. We have a set of them, a set of six. The police could only find five. One was missing, Kina."

I stopped stirring.

"Have they sent it away?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Have they tested it?"

"The detective in charge said he would tell me when they get the results."

"He? What happened to that woman, Corrigan?"

"I don't know. The detective I spoke to was called Bailey. I didn't like him. He talked about you a lot."

"Just ignore that. He's trying to scare you."

"He does scare me. It's alright for you." There was a sudden spark of anger in her voice. "You're used to all this. And you have an alibi."

An elderly black couple looked up. The husband had a white beard. It twinkled beneath the overhead lights. He watched as Olivia mouthed a silent apology and reached across the table. I clutched her hands, unafraid of the contact.

"I didn't kill him, Kina, I swear."

"I know."

"What about the knife?"

"Wait until it gets tested."

"It has to be our knife. It's too much of a coincidence. How did it get there?"

"Simon must have taken it with him."

"Never." Her tone was defiant. "He wasn't like that. He would never carry a knife around."

"He might have taken it for protection. He was walking late at night."

"No, he hated all that kind of thing."

I squeezed her hands. "He took the knife for protection. That's what you tell them. You get me?"

"But he didn't, Kina. I mean, he wouldn't carry a knife."

"That doesn't matter now. You need to cover your back, OK?"

"No, I'm not having them think he went out looking for trouble."

I ran out patience with her. "Jesus, Olivia, if the knife came from your kitchen and Simon didn't take it with him then that leaves only you. Simon took it with him. Do you hear me?"

She nodded, pieces falling in place. "Bailey kept asking if I followed Simon after he left the house and got into an argument with him."

"How could you have followed him when you were asleep on the couch?" I waited for her to respond. "You were asleep on the couch, right? Olivia? Olivia?"

She bit her lip.

"The police know about the arguments."

I eased my grip from her.

"What arguments?"

"Simon and me. We'd been fighting since the summer. A lot of shouting, slamming doors."

"So?"

"Bailey said that gives me a motive."

"Arguments are not a motive." I paused. "Did you argue that night?"

She nodded.

"You weren't asleep on the couch, were you?"

"No."

"You told the cops you were."

"I lied."

"Fuck," I said.

"He'd been distant," said Olivia. "It was like living with a stranger. It was fine in the beginning but it all changed in August, ever since he missed out on that bloody award."

"What award?"

But she didn't hear, she was gone again, crushed by what had and hadn't been said between them.

"I kept asking him what was wrong but he'd just say it was nothing. But there was something. I'd catch him staring into space, looking sad. And he stopped taking me out. I didn't notice at first and then suddenly I realised we hadn't been anywhere in months. And the little things stopped, you know, the little _couple_ things that make a relationship."

I didn't know what made a relationship.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

The lift was on another floor. There was a crowd waiting for it. I didn't have the patience to wait. We cut across the landing, past a packed shop selling mobile phones, laptops and software. We stepped onto the escalator.

"At first, I thought he was disappointed at missing out – he came second. But he promised me it wasn't that. I thought it was a problem with the bands he produces for but he said it was nothing like that. I know he's been a bit stressed with the album he was working on but..."

"He was doing an album?"

"Yes, his own material." She paused. "Do you remember Floyd Wickman, a disco singer?"

I nodded. "Mum used to have his records. She played them as much as Dad played Boney M."

We came off the escalator, breezed through the crowds.

"Simon told me Floyd fell out of favour with his record company as tastes changed. I think he had a drug habit as well. Simon put him back on the music map last year; he did a duet with X-Y-Zee. It was played in all the clubs." She saw I didn't have a clue who X-Y-Zee were. "They're a local soul band. The track was a mix of modern and old school. That's how Simon described it." A fond smile lit her eyes. "They put out an EP last year, produced by Simon. It was a big underground hit. The tracks were even heard in Ibiza."

"Was there any trouble with all these bands and artists? Any fights over money or drugs or anything?"

She shook her head. "Floyd was grateful for a second chance. The bands are glad of any chance at all."

Loud voices caught my attention. A group of teenagers were arguing with a team of security. It was getting heated.

"That's gonna kick off," I said.

I shifted Olivia out into the rain, away from the centre and impending trouble. We sheltered beneath the arch of a large building, five floors tall, glass and steel. Digging out two cigarettes, I lit them both, handed her one.

"What was the award you mentioned?"

"An ACS - Artistic & Creative Stars. Newham council started it three years ago. It was Simon's first nomination."

"And he came second?"

"Yes."

We smoked. The rain spilled down. I had to ask.

"Was he seeing someone else?"

"No."

"Did you ask him?"

"Yes."

"And he said no?"

"He said no."

"What about his ex? Was he getting it there again?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I don't know."

"Did he see her a lot?"

"He saw Trevor every Saturday. Trevor is his boy. _Trevor was his boy._ "

"So what was bugging him?"

She dragged on her cigarette.

"I found pictures on his phone."

Rain and wind battered the hundreds of shoppers as they threaded along the noisy high street. Vehicles splashed through deep puddles. The gang of youths were ejected from the centre and began to swear and gesture at the security team. A patrol of police officers came over. The youths didn't back down and began to argue with them.

"She's blonde, and old, really old, about twenty years older than me."

That made her roughly three years older than me. _Really old?_ I shrugged it off.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"What kind of photos were they?"

She shook her head.

"Sex ones?"

"No, that's what was so upsetting. I could understand that. No, not understand it but... oh, you know what I mean. But these... these were intimate in a different way. They were pictures of her eating a meal or at the zoo or standing outside a theatre. Simon mixes with women all the time. I know some of them fancy him. There was flirting but it was all good-natured. He wasn't secretive about that kind of thing."

"But he was secretive about her?"

She ground out her cigarette. "Whoever she is." She spat the words out. "He had me and he was having an affair."

Men made no sense to me.

"Were there any text messages?" I asked.

"I didn't get time to check."

"What do you mean?"

"He caught me with his phone. We had a big fight. He locked his phone after that with a pin number."

"Have the cops got his phone?"

"It's missing."

"Then he got robbed, Olivia. That's what happened. He was jumped for his phone and tried to fight back."

"No, he wouldn't use a knife, Kina. You've met him. Do you think he could've carried a knife?"

"I didn't know him."

"But you met him. Can you imagine him carrying a knife? Or trying to use it?"

I funnelled smoke through my nose.

"No."

"And his wallet was still in his pocket. That cop Bailey went on and on about how unlikely it was that Simon had been mugged and only his phone taken."

I thought about that. The cop was right. No mugger would leave behind a wallet and take only a phone.

But then if he'd stabbed Simon by accident and panicked...

"You were home when he was stabbed. You weren't out on the street. He's got nothing."

"He isn't looking for anyone else, Kina."

"Don't start believing..."

She reached out, held onto me. "That cop Bailey says he has a witness who saw me stab Simon."

NINE

Memories spun and they were all bad, crashing into sweat-drenched dreams, dealing card after card of misery.

I slept little in the week that followed, waking in darkness, the duvet twisted round me, half-choking. I feared what was coming for my baby sister. I had her name with a heartfelt message tattooed on my left forearm. I'd had that done years back when she was learning to walk, to show her how much I loved her. I traced my fingers over it now, recalling how she'd giggled when I'd showed it to her. Mum had shaken her head at me. She knew I had more tattoos than that and didn't approve.

It was the early hours of the morning. Drunken voices passed by on the street below. I untangled the duvet, went into the bathroom. The light hummed and buzzed. I turned on the shower, tested the water, found a large towel. Peeling off my damp clothes, I got under the spray.

I'd walked out of prison wanting London to swallow me up and forget about the things I'd done. But that was over with. There wasn't any choice for me. I couldn't spend my nights drowning in guilt and regret. No more hiding. No more shadows. I had to step out of the dark.

I had to find the killer or Olivia would be labelled one.

The pieces were falling into place for the cops. It was too easy for them. They had the weapon, a witness and motive. It was loose, circumstantial at best, but I knew that wouldn't hold them off. They had me, too, an ex-con, and the jury would get to know my history and that would seal it. It was only a matter of time before they scooped up Olivia and she wouldn't survive in prison.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapped the towel round myself, sat on the toilet, seat down, and smoked.

There had been no more trouble at the shop after the firework stunt. One morning a white van pulled up and two men climbed out. I watched from upstairs. They spoke with Mr Bhola and set about replacing the damaged street door. It had an improved lock and chain and a spy hole. They came up and replaced the flat door as well. I had to wait around so I made them tea and opened a pack of biscuits. They spoke about football the entire time they worked. I couldn't wait for them to leave.

Mr Bhola told me he would be having an alarm installed next week. He had one in the shop but this would be on an independent circuit for the flat. I assured him there was no need but he insisted. He was angry at Acne-Boy and quite protective over me.

"I must make sure you are secure," he said. "I should have done this work a long time ago."

Then he busied himself pricing up more goods from the cash and carry, radio on in the background, India against England in the cricket. I didn't have a clue what the commentators were talking about.

Days ebbed away. November became December. Olivia had been interviewed with her solicitor present and the cops had told her the blood on the knife was a match for her boyfriend, Simon Farley. There were no usable prints, nothing to link Olivia to it. Her solicitor was taking the angle that, despite the knife matched a set they owned, and despite the fact that one of those six knives was now missing, it was a common make of knife, and sold in the thousands, and similar blades had already been used in a dozen or more knife crimes this year.

I wasn't happy at that approach. No jury would believe in that coincidence if this got as far as a trial. And Olivia, when initially confronted with the knife, before the solicitor got involved, identified it immediately. I phoned Douglas and told him my concerns. It was best to declare that it _had_ belonged to them and that Simon had taken it with him that night in fear of his life - then a piece of scum had taken it from him.

As Douglas listened, with his typical quiet patience, never interrupting, I realised that what I was describing was most likely what _had_ happened. He'd taken the knife and his killer had turned it on him.

But why? For a phone? A man's life for a mobile?

I didn't know the answer but the question rattled round in my head as I hunted for work, ate microwave meals, drank cans of cheap lager and smoked heavily. I ditched the night out with Jade. I didn't want company. She pretended to be OK but I got that she was disappointed, even hurt. It wasn't rejection, far from it. I needed space from her. She had picked me out that morning and extended a hand of friendship after all these years but we had a complicated past; she knew it, I knew it, and the past was a place I wasn't too keen on visiting, not even where she was concerned. I wasn't sure if I still loved her or was in love with the _idea_ of her because she wasn't the same person and nor was I.

I tried to explain to her of the rage that simmered inside and the fear of getting hurt or hurting someone else but the words choked in my throat.

"We can start again, Kina" she said. "You've been gone for eleven years. I'd like us to get to know each other once more, as friends."

I closed my eyes at the gentle tone of her voice rolling down the phone.

"Are you with someone?" I asked.

There was a split-second hesitation. "Yes."

I clenched inside. "I have to work," I said, and hung up. It was lame and I didn't even have a job.

* * *

Early December, I grabbed a warehouse job over in Hackney.

It wasn't being advertised though the centre or any agencies. I was out and about asking for work and walked right into an interview. It was the night shift, unloading goods, perfect. It was a temporary position, lasting up to Christmas, and would keep me in the flat.

I joined a crew of seven men and three women, most of them Polish. On the first night one of the women, Nadia or Natalia, I wasn't too sure of her name, kept staring at me. She had nasty eyes and a disgusted curl to her mouth. I knew her deal. Fucking bitch had a beef with colour.

Later in the shift, as the hours became worn and familiar, the work mind-numbing, I swore I heard the words _half-breed_ slip from her mouth followed by laughter from a few of the men. There were a couple of monkey impressions thrown in, just for good measure. It had been a long time since I'd heard monkey chants. But some of the men were unimpressed and there were angry words exchanged in Polish.

I kept working, unloading boxes onto shelves, remaining calm and waiting for the moment. It came after midnight. Nadia or Natalia or whatever the fuck she was called was alone in an aisle with a half-empty metal trolley.

She attempted to wheel away but I slammed my shoe into the wheels and stopped her dead.

"What are you doing?"

She had a spiky voice of broken English. She wore fingerless gloves, nails painted a sparkling orange. I liked them. She had a tattoo on her neck, symbols winding down toward her chest. I liked that as well. It was a shame I had the urge to stomp her into the ground.

"You got a problem with me, bitch?" I said.

It bounced off her.

"I am busy," said Nadia or Natalia. "I don't know what is wrong with you. Do you need help?"

"What the fuck are you going say now?"

"I don't understand you."

"You looking to get fucked up?"

"Why are you picking on me?"

It was always the same; sling it and then turn it round and make me the aggressor. I got in her face. There was no fear in her eyes. That made her a fucking idiot.

She tried to push her trolley forward. I kept my foot jammed against it. She wasn't going anywhere. Her breathing became a little more rapid; I could smell garlic on her breath – and wariness.

"You wanna do your monkey chants?"

She was silent.

"Go on, bitch. Do your fucking monkey chants to my face. Yeah?"

I gripped her arms, pinned her against the shelving, went nose to nose with her.

"You even look at me again and I'll fucking shank you - you get me?"

I was about to slam a fist into her gut when a voice called out.

" _Is everything alright down here?"_

It was Abi, the night supervisor, standing at the top of the aisle, balanced on her left foot.

I eased away, hands on show, and went back to my trolley. Nadia or Natalia sorted herself out.

Abi marched toward us, frowning. She wore ankle-high boots, black leggings and a brightly-coloured gilet. She held a tablet in the crook of her arm, the screen reflected in her silver-rimmed glasses. She was in her twenties, white, petite and black-haired with a tight walk and a tight body. She had a round face and a small mouth that had smiled throughout the short interview I'd had with her.

There was no smile now as her eyes darted between us.

"What's the problem here? Helena? Kina?"

_Helena?_ _Where the hell had I got Nadia or Natalia from?_

Neither of us spoke.

"Helena, I need you up on the mezzanine floor. All the pallets have to be cleared before the shift ends."

"Yes," she said, and wheeled away, not looking back. I shrugged lightly, still with nothing to say.

But Abi had plenty to say. She was about twelve years younger than me and fragile looking but this was her domain.

"I don't want fighting in here. Jobs are scarce. I need staff prepared to work. You convinced me of that in your interview. Do you understand me?"

I nodded. "I understand."

The bollocking was over. The smile was back. She fished a box of cigarettes from her pocket.

"Come for a break, Kina."

It was black and freezing outside. A mist had come down. I could barely see the nearby road.

"She did say it," said Abi. "I heard her. And the monkey chants, as well. I've had problems with her before."

She dragged on her cigarette, rocked on her heels, legs pressed tight.

"I take it that's what the argument was about?"

"Maybe," I said, blowing out smoke.

"Do you want to make a complaint?"

I shook my head, flicked ash. "No."

"Well, she'll be gone after tonight. She has a cousin working here. He'll leave once I get rid of her."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault. Helena wants to work but loves to stir trouble. I don't need that kind of thing. This is the busiest month of the year." She paused. "You're doing fine, by the way, ahead of where you should be."

I noticed her eyes, large and brown behind her silver-rimmed glasses. I held her gaze for a moment.

She closed her lips round her cigarette, drew on it. I gave her a small smile and she smiled back.

A plane roared above, hidden by the clouds. Abi dropped into general chat, mostly about work, a bit about family – she had a brother; he was military, stationed abroad, but coming home for Christmas. I listened. I didn't say much. She didn't seem to mind.

Helena was sacked at the end of the shift and, as Abi had predicted, her cousin quit as well. I hung around, just in case they decided to give her any trouble, but nothing kicked off.

I threw on my jacket, zipped it. Abi was switching off lights, locking doors.

"Kina, wait a minute," she called.

I was half-through the front door, ducking against a sharp wind. She held up one finger and mouthed a silent _one minute._ Her eyes were bouncing. I bent away from the wind and lit a cigarette. The misty cold seeped into my bones.

She opened an alarm panel in the lobby and punched in a code. The alarm began to beep. Switching off the final light, she came outside and locked the door which killed the alarm.

"All done." She cleared her throat. "Do you fancy a drink? There's a place I go in Dalston. It's open until four."

I nodded. "Yeah."

We took a cab, the roads busy, pavements noisy, drunks and troublemakers. A siren wailed in the distance, nothing new.

"They charge a fiver after midnight," Abi was saying. "But only at weekends. It's free during the week."

The car lurched over a pothole. The driver held up his hand and apologised. We hit a set of lights and a clutch of teenagers in hoods drifted across, all swagger, gesturing toward the car, half-heartedly. The light turned green. We took a few sharp turns and then the cabbie pulled up.

We shared the fare and got out. The cold night air was filled with throbbing bass from the bar. Doormen gathered outside, suits and overcoats.

It was called _Heaven 101._ The place was rocking, buzzing with old school cuts. I saw only women, straight and gay and everywhere in between, ticking all the boxes with age, size and colour. There were mirrors strung with twinkling lights, pedestals entwined with fake-foliage, glass bowls with rough-edged cubes flickering a million colours. The air rippled with conversation and laughter, fizzed with anticipation and sexual desire.

It was the kind of bar I'd got picked up in numerous times as a teenager.

"That's the first time you've smiled all evening," said Abi.

I hadn't realised I was smiling. It wasn't something I did often.

"I was remembering something."

"You can tell me after a few drinks."

She held my hand, guided me toward the noisy bar. We moved onto stools and she flashed a note.

"Do you like the music?" she asked, as we waited.

"Yeah."

We were served blue-coloured cocktails.

"What's this?" I asked.

She whispered in my ear. I could feel her hot breath. Her tight body would be mine tonight. We would drink, possibly dance and then I'd bed her. I'd never thought of myself as gay but then I'd never thought of myself as straight; I got into what sparked desire and it was usually female. Billy had been one of two exceptions and he'd been the mistake of the century. I think what really bugged me was labels. I'd been labelled all my life; tearaway, outsider, troublemaker, murderer.

Abi was chatting. I was listening. Her lips glistened. Her eyes sparkled. I wanted her naked.

We went a few more rounds. My head buzzed. It wasn't the cheap lager I was used to. The bar was packed. I was sweating. I slipped off my jacket and fleece, sat in a sleeveless vest. Abi beamed at the sight of my tattoos.

"How many do you have?" she asked.

"Six." I raised the hem of my vest, displaying a butterfly surging from a crop of flowers. "This is my favourite. It goes down onto my hip. I had this done when I was twenty-three."

She traced a finger over my exposed skin. "You like ink?" I asked her.

"I love ink."

I laughed, which was even rarer than a smile.

"I need the toilet," she said. "Don't get taken." She flashed a smile. " _Really_ don't get taken."

She squeezed my leg, met my eyes. I drained my glass, sat admiring the DJ, a white girl with platinum-blonde hair. She was fine-looking and laying down a set of good tunes. There was plenty of rocking and swaying from the crowd. A large sign pointed to a basement, no doubt crammed fast-moving bodies.

Tingling as I waited for Abi to return, I glanced round the bar once more. A white woman in her forties caught my eye a few times. I thought she was staring at me but whenever I looked she had already turned away. She had spiky hair, wore glasses and a large stone-coloured cross round her neck. She was sitting with a group of women, all of them white, caught up in serious conversation. She bugged me for a moment so I watched her from the corner of my eye but she didn't check me out again. I must have imagined it. I wasn't interested in her – I just didn't like the way she'd stared.

But I was getting eyed now and it wasn't subtle. An Asian woman with dyed red hair and skin-tight leather trousers was gazing at me across the rim of her glass. She dazzled beneath the lights in a silky green shirt, buttoned to the throat, small breasts shifting against the fabric. She lifted a hand off her hip and ran it through her shoulder length hair. I guessed she was nearly thirty. _Why hadn't I heard of this place before tonight?_

Abi wasn't back. The urge for a cigarette took over. I threw on my fleece and jacket and went outside, leaving the gorgeous redhead behind.

Dalston froze beneath a starless black sky. My lighter refused to spark so I got a light from one of the doormen.

Jade came into my head. I pushed her out. And then Olivia, sitting at home with Mum and Douglas, waiting for the cops. A wave of guilt filled my gut. I swallowed it down. I needed this night. This was my first step back into the world, a chance to move from the fringes.

I ground out my cigarette.

Abi was at the bar. The red-haired Asian in the skin-tight leather trousers had made a move on her. I walked slowly from the door, eased between the two of them, facing Abi, keeping my back to the Asian woman.

She let out a short gasp. "Really?" She had a lovely voice, educated, smooth, the kind of voice you want talking down the phone at you late in the night. I turned round and she arched a thick eyebrow. There was a suggestive smile on her brightly-painted lips.

"Really," I said.

She got the message, conceded she wasn't getting near Abi. I watched the shape of her bottom as she melted into the crowd. Then I turned away and tentatively stroked Abi's face.

Her eyes beamed. "Let's get out here," I said.

I hadn't even noticed the spiky-haired woman glaring at us as we left.

TEN

My mobile buzzed.

I opened my eyes, sat up too quickly. Pain shot through my head, the residue of last night's potent cocktails.

The phone went silent.

I yawned, leaned down and dug through neatly-folded clothing.

3 missed calls.

Mum.

I washed a hand over my face, raked fingers through my tangled hair. I placed the mobile on a bedside cabinet. There was a half-filled ashtray, a well-thumbed book and a lamp. I knew what the call was about. It was like waiting for an accident; everything goes in slow-motion and I was in no hurry to get smashed around.

Abi was asleep, lying on her stomach, covers around her waist, exposing a small back. I drew close to her, raised the covers, pressed into her warmth, and closed my eyes. She murmured. I intended to stay there for a minute, no longer, but I must have dozed for nearly an hour because time had accelerated past 9am and my mobile was vibrating across the bedside cabinet.

It switched off before I could answer. Abi was still asleep, warm and cosy. I held her, claiming those seconds for us and no one else. Her body had been as submissive and tight as I'd imagined and hoped.

A dustcart rumbled along the street, wheelie bins scraped and clattered. Yawning, knowing I could put it off no longer, I climbed from the bed, grabbed my clothes and hurriedly dressed.

A black and white cat slipped past my ankles, mewing. It sprang onto the bed, eyes watching, sussing me out, friend or foe. It tugged at the twisted duvet with its claws, marking its territory, letting me know who was boss round here. I offered it my hand and it nuzzled my fingers. It began to purr, a deep sound, blocking out the noise from the street and the noise in my head.

Abi suddenly muttered in her sleep and turned onto her side, no doubt sensing her pet.

"Why don't you call them back?"

Her words were slurred - exhaustion, not drink. I left her alone with her cat. I took my phone into the bathroom, passing the compact living room, Abi's clothes strewn on the floor, an empty bottle of wine, another ashtray and a Roni Size CD – the girl had good taste.

I closed the door, sat down on the toilet, stared at my phone. The seconds would wait no longer, fate and reality refused to be denied; it was the shocking moment of impact.

I called Mum.

"Where in God's name have you been, Kina? I've been calling and calling. Sure, what's the point of a phone if you're not going...?"

I closed my eyes, loosened my bladder and allowed her to rant. I wiped, flushed and still she barked.

"Mum, what happened?"

She needed her lectures. She'd spent her entire life doing them.

"Mum," I said, raising my voice. "Tell me."

"Sure, just what we thought. I told Douglas what would happen. The police came this morning. Murder detectives, two of them. They've arrested Olivia. They're going to charge her."

I steadied against the sink, forced back tears.

"Where in God's name have I gone wrong with you both? You were the start of this, my girl. All that carry on with Billy. I warned you where it would end."

I hung up, washed my hands, and reluctantly looked in the mirror. I hated the woman staring back at me but she was all I had to work with if I was going to save my sister.

PART TWO

ELEVEN

Head ducked, I stood at the bottom of an iron footbridge, the spot where Simon had been attacked.

Floral tributes blew in the wind, no doubt left by local people sick of seeing another black man stabbed to death.

I was showered, hair pulled back, wearing trainers, jeans and a faded denim shirt, flaps peeking beneath the hem of my fleece and jacket. I was zipped up tight, collar raised, hood raised, trying to focus on Olivia, remanded in custody, the charge of murder hanging over her, only I couldn't stop thinking of Abi, working together, sleeping together - nights at the bar, her warm bed in Hackney.

The wind whipped at me. I was jolted back to reality. _I had to do this._ I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. I had to step out of the shadows; I had to become someone and solve this mess - or my sister was going to rot behind bars.

I shivered. The temperature hovered near zero. The sky was washed out, no clouds, the sun hanging low, weak and disinterested. The paving slabs beneath my feet were ringed with frost-covered weeds.

Simon had stupidly carried a knife out here and got shanked with it. He'd sustained three stabs to the stomach, one slash to his arm as he'd attempted to flee, another slash to his neck and leg and a half-stab into his lower back.

I got that girlfriends killed boyfriends and boyfriends killed girlfriends – _I really got it_ \- but the cops were way off base with Olivia. It made no sense to me. She was happy with Simon. They'd hit a rocky patch, that was all. Douglas had engaged a solicitor but I didn't trust a man in a suit and there was no way he was going to be out on these streets looking for answers. He'd probably try to carve out a manslaughter charge.

I was probably doing the guy a disservice. He was a personal friend, apparently, as well as a business associate, no doubt a professional. With that in mind, I'd picked up a packet of pens and a notebook from a local shop. A solicitor would want everything written down for him. I had terrible handwriting and terrible spelling but it would have to do.

I lit another cigarette, my third since arriving. I wasn't sure what I was hoping to find or achieve by hanging around. But I had found out something already. The shop Simon had been heading for that fateful night closed at 10.30pm. Going out for snacks had been an excuse to get out of that house and away from the argument with Olivia.

I dropped onto the bottom step of the bridge, the surface rough and cold, and took out my notebook. I scribbled down the information regarding the shop.

The traffic was relentless, cars and vans volleying past at reckless speeds. I sucked in smoke, stared at the faint patches of blood, unblinking.

It had begun here and ended at the house.

I got to my feet. A van thundered by, the driver hitting the horn and roaring inside his cab at the sight of a woman.

I ignored the fool.

He has a witness that saw me stab Simon.

I wondered about that.

The footbridge steps were set back from the road. It was a fairly enclosed area of bushes and graffiti-covered walls with no lights and no CCTV. A low block of flats stood nearby, looming toward the pale sky, but this was still a concealed spot. It was possible the witness might live up on the top floor but I doubted it. Olivia's solicitor would know their identity but he wasn't going to reveal that to me.

There were houses across the road, rows of them, identical, set back behind a large green where kids played football after school and drunks sat on benches. It was more likely the witness had come from there. I imagined someone carrying out a sack of rubbish at the end of the evening, glancing across the road and spotting Simon being attacked. But it was a considerable distance. _How reliable was that witness? How clearly had he or she seen Olivia? I wish I knew what the cops had._

I would have to knock on doors, ask questions. _Would anyone talk to me?_ It was a big problem and I didn't know how to get round it. Another problem I had was that I needed to come here at night, almost reconstruct Simon's movements, and see what he had seen. That would mean missing work.

The notebook and pen had been a stupid idea. _What was I thinking?_ I was out of my depth. I was determined to root out the truth but I was no detective. I had no backup, no specialists, no experts and no resources. But I did have good instincts and tenacity and I would have to roll with that.

I looked at the flats. I was convinced no one could've had seen anything from up there but I had to be certain because if they had – it was much closer than the houses across the road.

Along a path and through a short alleyway I emerged in a car park. The cars had iced windscreens. There was no one around. I went into a cold lobby. Graffiti on the walls, lager bottles littering the foot of the stairs, the odour of stale urine.

I jogged up the steps, past an upturned crate with a spread of dog-ends and more uncapped lager bottles. I reached the landing above, flats on both sides. I could hear muted voices.

I leaned against the balcony. The upper part of the bridge and the main road were visible but not the corner where Simon had been attacked. It was obscured by the graffiti-covered walls.

I studied the graffiti, frowned as I recognised one of the tags; _HE-7_ set within an angry circle, overlaid with a pistol.

Hoppings East 7.

My stomach folded; I couldn't believe the name still existed and existed this far from the Hoppings estate. Billy's old drug gang. My old drug gang. He'd been one of the founding members and I'd been his woman. The tag was fresh. This wasn't from the past. My skin crawled. My stomach churned.

I reached for my cigarettes, unable to think or even breathe as the past shadowed the present.

A flat door slammed. I whirled round, startled, and almost dropped my lighter. A tall and slender woman in leggings and trainers appeared, zipping up a long coat. A gym bag was slung over one shoulder.

"Morning," she said, brightly.

She trotted down the stairs without waiting for a reply, shoes squeaking against the concrete. I watched her in silence. The lobby door clattered. A second later I heard an engine start and the familiar sound of a scraper against ice.

I lit up, stared down at the graffiti.

All those years, all that time, and the _badmen_ still strutted the walkways of the Hoppings.

I took a long drag, rueful and thoughtful. The past was knocking. There might be no choice in answering.

I briskly checked both landings. An unshaven man peered out of a kitchen window hung with limp strands of tinsel, a bowl of cereal in his hands. The kitchen was messy, cluttered with boxes, household junk, a collection of soft toys. There was a radio on the windowsill, the drone of a heated phone-in debate. He saw me glance at it and his look became a hard stare; I was a stranger and by the looks of the place - he had a security gate across his front door - strangers weren't welcome.

I didn't hang around – I'd seen all I'd come to see and that was nothing. There was no way anyone in these flats had witnessed the attack, not unless they were on the street that night.

I looked at the houses across the main road, certain the witness had come from there, and thought again about knocking on doors, asking questions.

But right now I had another concern and it was a pretty big one - I was being watched.

* * *

I didn't move, not right away. I took a slow drag, counted.

There were seven of them.

Three had appeared on the bridge, two on foot, one on a bike. The one on the bike had a mobile inside his hood, pressed to his ear. There were two more on the green across the road, both on bikes, cycling slowly, nice and casual, eyes on me the whole time. Another two had materialised down in the car park, slouched on bikes.

They were interchangeable; teenagers with hoods raised, face scarves and gloves, zipped up jackets, swagger and attitude, no school for these boys. The traffic hustled by, unaware. The man with the bowl of cereal had switched off his radio and lowered his kitchen blind.

I'd strayed into marked territory. The kids that ran in gangs were more ruthless than ever. No line they wouldn't cross. No crime they wouldn't commit. No punishment or retribution they feared, unfazed by hard stares, reputations or wailing sirens. I could get gang-raped or shanked or both and they would cycle away laughing and talk about it later with a crack pipe and a bag of greasy-fried chicken. I knew all about gangs, I'd been a member of one.

I should've been terrified, only I wasn't.

It was hard to feel fear after Billy, after prison. I wasn't stupid or particularly brave and I knew I'd have to be on my toes to get through this. But there was no fear. That emotion had been pushed down, far beneath the swirl of self-hatred. All my shit went inward.

I came through the lobby doors. The two boys had blocked the frost-covered path. I stared at them.

"Do you mind moving?"

It was a polite enough question but I hadn't chosen a polite tone. I wanted them to know I wasn't in any mood for their shit.

"You a _fed_?"

This came from the one on the right. He had deep brown eyes. He pulled down his scarf, revealing a face twisted and burning with hate. He was about thirteen, black and fairly tall, angled across a bike too small for him. His jacket was half open. I guessed he had a weapon close at hand.

"Bitch, answer my boy, Smoke," said the other one. "What the fuck you doing here?"

His voice was excitable, high-pitched.

"Move your fucking bikes," I said.

I stepped forward. They laughed.

"Move our bikes?" said the one on the left. "You need to get that fucking mouth over here and suck me off, bitch."

"Fuck you, little boy, now move."

Smoke kissed his teeth, reached into his jacket and whipped out a machete.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he said. "Come stroll round my yard like you own it, disrespecting my brother, Bounce."

They both started at me, mouths flapping, curses and putdowns, hands gesturing. I ignored it all. The only thing I was interested in was the machete; that could do real damage.

"She ain't no fed," said Bounce, the one on the left. "Just some dirty fucking sket."

Smoke pointed the machete at me. "You fucked up, bitch. We're taking you round back and me and Bounce..."

He didn't get to say another word. He wasn't expecting it, despite being armed and ready for trouble. I was a woman in her thirties, alone, the way the gangs prefer it, piling in with the numbers on their side. The weapon was to intimidate, to suppress and oppress; he'd use it, without a doubt, and had probably used it before, but he hadn't expected to _need_ it with me.

Bounce was laughing, springing up and down on his bike, clutching his groin, eyes twinkling. They were hounds who'd caught the fox and the outcome was going to be messy.

They were right about that...

I shot out my hand and curled it round the boy's wrist, forcing the machete down. His eyes widened with shock. He _really_ had expected me to submit to him. I thrust out my other hand, bunched into a fist, hitting him in the throat, knocking him off the bike. He hit the ground hard, gasping and choking, the machete skating across the path.

"Shit," said Bounce, stunned for a second. Then he moved, faster than I'd hoped, right hand bending round his back for a knife or a gun tucked into his waistband. I spun and swung my leg, fast and accurate, ploughing into his stomach. He flew backward, winded, and toppled over, tangled in the bike.

Smoke was getting up. I lashed my foot across his face, sent him back down.

Bounce wrestled the bike off him. I stamped on his groin and then his head. He rolled over, crying in pain.

"Pussies," I said.

And then I ran.

TWELVE

Arms and legs pumping, no burn in my lungs, I sprinted hard.

The gang had youth on their side. I had experience and years of working out. This was their _yard_ but that didn't count for shit with me. I'd grown up round here. I'd run from the police and rival gangs countless times.

The three from the bridge were trailing behind me, getting further back, dropping out of sight. The two from the green were pedalling fast on the other side of the road, zipping along the pavement, giving me a serious problem. I had to assume they were carrying knives or even a gun. Smoke and Bounce were nowhere. They were out of it for now.

The main road was busy with traffic and the boys couldn't get across. Horns blared as they made several attempts. I kept running, agile and in shape. I saw shocked looks from several drivers but no one could stop – they'd be rear-ended if they'd attempted to slow down and help.

I fled across a junction, glancing back. A car whipped toward me, angling in from the right. I hadn't seen it and couldn't hear it above the roar of traffic on the main road.

I pitched forward. Tyres screeched, a horn blasted. Heart racing, I kept running, spotting Clement Drive up ahead, where Olivia and Simon had lived. The house keys jangled in my pocket.

I took a last look. The two boys on the bikes were still trying to force a way across but the one from the bridge had caught up and was much closer. His legs thrust at the pedals, determined eyes showing above a scarf wrapped round his face.

I spun into the cul-de-sac, hastily thrust a hand into my jacket pocket and dug out the keys Mum had passed me in the cafe.

There was no one around. I slowed and walked quickly toward the house, glancing left and right. A decorated tree sat in a window across the road, lights switch off.

I crossed the lawn. The grass was slippery. There were no cops and the police tape had been taken down.

The gangster came cycling into the drive. I had only seconds to make it to the front door and mess around with keys I'd never used before. That wasn't a choice. I ducked out of view down the side of the house.

The bike skidded to a stop.

He would be looking round, breathing hard, confused because it was a dead end, no other road, no alleys or footpaths, and he couldn't see me anywhere. He'd look again, eyes left and right, forehead crunched, unable to work it out.

I continued to wait, not moving. There was a succession of metal squeaks as he began to slowly cycle forward.

I dropped down, hidden beside the council wheelie bins, back pressed against the wall. I saw him cycle by and then two more appeared, the boys from the green. The three of them began to circle the cul-de-sac, trying to figure it out.

I guessed the neighbours, any that were home, were peering out, wondering what trouble was about to kick off.

The gang dropped their bikes in the middle of the close. I kept low, not moving, listening to them, their voices loud and clear. There was the scrape of feet and two more arrived, one of them a girl. The gang began to chatter much louder, looking round and pointing without seeing me.

A mobile rang. I heard the girl answer. Her voice was close. She was chatting as she strolled toward the house. The boys were pushing and shoving each other.

I sucked in breath as the girl got closer.

"Yeah, yeah," she was saying. She reached the drive. "I know, right, yeah, I said that, I did, I fucking did."

There was a long pause as she listened.

One of the gang called to her, certain I wasn't here and impatient to get going. She shouted back at him and got a mouthful of abuse for her trouble.

"Nah, nah, don't sweat it. Nah, we're after some bitch. She just put down Smoke and Bounce. I know, I know."

She laughed, stuttered and fake.

"Yeah, I just left it like that, yeah, I know, what the fuck can I do? I don't want to go back there. She's a fucking bitch."

She wandered closer. She wore a gold jacket, denim shorts, black tights, expensive trainers. I guessed she was fourteen or fifteen, a sour look on her face, hair brown with white streaks.

"Soon, soon, yeah, you know it."

Sweat trickled from my armpits.

"I reckon I should. Yeah, yeah, go live with them at the Wax. Yeah, catch you later."

She hung up, glanced along the alleyway. I licked my lips. She saw only the bins and shrugged.

"Nicky," called one of the boys.

She quickly rejoined the gang and they pushed off.

* * *

I unlocked the side door, hung in the doorway.

The house was soundless. Not a creak, not a groan, nothing. The stillness was unnatural. Through an open archway I could see the living room. There were large patches of dried blood on the carpet.

I turned my head away.

Time seemed to evaporate. _The memory hit me hard; the blade going into Billy, stab after stab, puncturing skin, ripping it back out, screaming and crying, so much blood, the blade jamming in his chest, lodged. I couldn't get it out. I couldn't get the fucking thing out. He was still breathing. His brown eyes were staring at me. His lips were moving up and down. His hands clawed limply at me. I ran, I ran. I grabbed his gun, cocked it, put my finger against the trigger..._

A garage slammed shut. I gasped, poked my head out of the side door and saw a man carrying a boxed Christmas tree toward his house.

I held onto the kitchen door, breathing hard, uncertain if I was going to take a step forward.

Backhanding the sweat from my face, I stepped inside a square-shaped room and closed the door. I put the keys in my pocket, took out my cigarettes and drew one from the box. I flicked my lighter, hesitated and put the smoke away. It just didn't seem right, like smoking in Church or something.

I surveyed the small kitchen. Weak sunlight peeked beneath a half-lowered blind that faced onto a plain looking garden out back. The lawn was tidy, blades tipped with dew.

I glanced round the kitchen; white goods, counter appliances and closed cupboards. A wooden plaque hung from a hook, a painting of two penguins side by side, with the words - _It doesn't matter how long the journey. What matters is who is beside you._

I went into the living room, deep in thought, patches of dried blood around me.

Motionless, I stared at the tree on the front lawn, branches bare.

I didn't know where to begin or what to do. What should I look for? I wasn't much of an investigator. Cops had skills at this kind of thing. They'd already been through the place. I wasn't going to unearth anything. Not unless it was something that didn't fit with their version of events.

I shut my eyes for a moment.

The two of them argued that night. Simon left to walk to the shop and buy a few bars of chocolate. He staggered back with multiple knife wounds and collapsed on the living room floor, dying as the ambulance arrived.

I walked back into the kitchen, turned on the cold tap. The water spat a few times until it began a steady stream. I opened a few cupboards, found a glass, filled it and drank.

I set the glass down, frowned. I took a pace back and reopened the cupboard I'd looked in first. There were lidded plastic containers with cereal and bottles of cooking oil and an open tub filled with packets of seeds and a lidded tub filled with chocolate bars.

"Shit," I whispered.

I dug out my mobile, phoned Mum. She didn't answer. I tried her again. Nothing. So I called Douglas.

"Kina, what's wrong?"

"I'm at the house."

"What are you doing there?"

"Mum gave me the keys."

I told him what I'd found. He went silent.

"Douglas?"

"I know that and so do the police."

"What do you mean?"

"Olivia told them that Simon went out to buy some chocolate but when the police found there was plenty in the house they assumed she was lying."

"So why did he go out then?"

"The police say it was to diffuse an argument; that Olivia was shouting and getting hysterical with him."

"And they have a neighbour backing this up, right?"

"Yes."

"Next door?"

"Kina leave this to the solicitor."

I glanced down at the bloodstained carpet.

"I'm not leaving anything to a dude in a suit. Olivia is on remand, Douglas. You don't have a clue what she's going through."

"We went through this with you," he said.

The line went dead.

* * *

I hadn't expected to uncover anything at the house but I did take a photograph of Simon, pushing it out of a picture frame in the living room. I stuffed it inside the notebook I'd bought.

I tried the house next door. A woman opened the front door, held on a chain.

"Can I help you?"

She was white, late-forties, wavy brown hair, untidy and tangled. She wore grey leggings, a shapeless jumper and large slippers.

"I'm Kina McKevie. Is it OK if I ask you about next door?"

"You with the recorder? They said they'd be coming back."

I didn't correct her.

"Hold on," she said.

She closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it again. I took a step forward but she filled the doorway, leaning on the jam.

"I know who you are and I know why you're here. It ain't just your sister in the paper, love. They've been running your story as well. _Murder in the family!_ "

I stiffened, went silent.

"Between me and you, I don't reckon she did it. She's a bit on the soft side, know what I mean? But they definitely had their problems. Happy as anything when she first moved in. We're detached, right, but the last few months I turn the TV up so I don't have to hear it."

"That bad?"

"Yeah, that bad."

"Any idea what it was about?"

"Bird shouting at a bloke, what do you think? I got the idea he was into something else. That's how it came across to me."

"I want to help to her. She didn't kill him."

"You're probably right. But whose gonna believe you? You ain't exactly whiter than white." She held up her hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I meant..."

"I know what you meant."

I looked round the close.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Twenty years, give or take. We moved round here when it was a good area."

"You ever see Simon with another woman? Or getting hassled in the street?"

She stepped from her door, eased it ajar behind her, keeping the warm air in and me and the cold out.

"I said all this to the old bill. Bloody knocking late at night with tons of questions. Your sister and her bloke were kicking off like crazy that night. He stormed out, her at the door, yelling at him and then slamming it shut. It's a shame. He was a decent fella, polite and that. Goes on too much round here, kids getting stabbed, shot – it's the gangs... but then you'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you? I mean, you stabbed your bloke, didn't you?"

"That was a long time ago."

"But you still did it, didn't you?" She folded her arms, rocked on her heels. "So it don't matter when it was, does it?"

I stared at her. "I'm just trying to help my sister."

"With a history like yours, love, I reckon the best thing you can do is disappear."

THIRTEEN

3am.

I was sat up in bed, white vest top. Abi was curled against me. Rain hammered the windows.

"It's the downside of night work," she said, too alert for sleep. "It messes up your body clock."

I blew smoke toward the ceiling. She tightened against me. "I thought you would have made a joke about my body not being messed up."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter."

With a history like yours, love, I reckon the best thing you can do is disappear.

I'd been a shit all night, taking plenty, giving nothing. I kissed her head, massaged her neck, hoping that would smooth her out.

We'd hung at _Heaven 101_ after work. The predatory Asian woman in the skin-tight leather trousers watched me on-and-off with a lingering smile. I'd smiled back at her when Abi was distracted ordering drinks.

"Can we go to your place?"

"No," I replied.

"I'd like to see it."

"You wouldn't."

"What's it like?"

"I live above a shop."

"I'd like that."

"It's noisy in the day."

"What kind of shop?"

"An off-license. The owner, Mr Bhola, stocks everything from drink to wrapping paper."

"I'd really like to see where you sleep."

"I sleep in a bed."

It came out harsh. I took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I had a rough day. Look, I don't have anything in the flat. A few bits of second-hand furniture, that's all. I don't have any ornaments. I haven't got a calendar or family pictures on the wall. I got a TV that I keep on with the sound switched off and I've got an ashtray. Well, a saucer, and it's always full." I let out a sigh. "I'm just not ready for you to come round. My stepdad fixed it up for me - it helped with my parole."

She knew I'd been inside. I'd told her at the interview. But that had been in a warm office, in daylight, a place of work. Here, right now, in the intimacy of her bedroom, her home, prison was a cold and gut-churning reality.

"How long were you sent away for?"

"I served eleven from eighteen."

She whispered. "Jesus."

"Yeah."

"Did you do it?"

"What?"

"A lot of innocent people end up inside."

I plucked out fresh cigarettes, lit them both, handed her one.

"I wasn't innocent."

"Was it a serious crime?"

"We did all this at the interview. You know I have a record. Why the questions?"

"Because we're together."

I said nothing.

"Maybe not _together_ together. Not yet. But we're both here."

I still didn't answer.

She rolled away, fixed a stare at me.

"My uncle is in prison. He's been there six years. Armed robbery. I don't have a problem with you having a record."

"It sounded like you did."

"I don't, Kina." She leaned forward, kissed me. "You can talk to me if you want to."

I turned my head from her.

"Did you get the scars in prison?"

"Some of them."

"Did he do the other ones to you?"

"Some of them."

I think she got it.

"What made you do it?"

I snorted. "Do it?" She was like a child. "I killed a man, Abi. Don't dress it up like anything else, you get me?" I paused. "I ran from who I was to be with him. I hated him and loved him because of it. Billy was a bastard, vicious to people... and I was no different. Why the fuck are you pushing this?"

"You're here with me in my bed and my life." The girl had bite. I respected that but I still had to shoot her down.

"I can't be with you. Not like that. This is just... I don't know what this is."

She stabbed out her cigarette. "I'll tell you what it is." Her hand slipped beneath the duvet.

"That isn't fair," I said, smiling.

Her cat leapt on the bed. He got between us, rolled onto his back and started to purr.

"Someone is jealous," I said.

Abi whipped her hand free, tickled his stomach. His claws latched onto her. He purred all the time so she tickled him even more. He'd been stretched out beside a blazing oil-filled radiator. Now he was stretched out on the bed. Abi stopped tickling his belly and he turned over, still purring. She stroked the top of his head.

The room was cosy from the heat of the radiator but had gotten messier as the week had rolled by. There were dirty and clean clothes piled on a chair and spilling from a plastic basket. They were draped over a mirror on wheels, hanging over the front of a wardrobe, hanging on the corner of the bedroom door. Abi's dressing table was even worse with bottles and tubes and tubs scattered and knocked over. The girl lived in a whirlwind. Maybe she pegged the weekend for a cleanup.

I closed my eyes for a moment, muscles tensing. Mess got under my skin. I needed stuff neat, organised. Then I had clarity. Then I could breathe.

Abi slid out of bed. I opened my eyes. She was naked. I watched her tight bum. She belted on a robe, headed for the kitchen.

"Abi?"

She poked her head round the bedroom door.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"This has to be a two-way thing," she said. "I don't like relationships that go in one direction."

She was sharp, intelligent, beautiful and she'd said what needed saying. _You're not using me._

Out of view, she rattled in the kitchen, leaving me with complicated thoughts and emotions that threatened to yank me one way and then the other. She came back with a plate of toast and two mugs of coffee. She made great coffee. I drank, nibbled and ran a hand through her hair.

"What happened today?" she asked.

I told her about the one-sided fight with Smoke and Bounce. Her face paled. "You need to be careful, Kina."

"I know how to handle myself."

"I'm sure you do." She squeezed my arm. "Pure muscle."

I laughed. "I don't think so."

"But you need to be careful. I'm serious. Every week I hear of women being raped or molested. It doesn't get any better. Kids running in gangs nowadays." She shook her head. "They don't care. I mean, they _don't_ care. Nothing is beyond them. You were lucky today."

She ate toast, petted her cat.

"What's his name?" I said.

"Guess."

I shrugged. "I don't have the patience for guessing games."

"No, come on, guess. I mean, look at him."

He was black and white with whiskers and a tail. I didn't get what I was missing. She sighed, a touch disappointed.

"His name is Felix, like the advert."

"I don't watch TV."

"No, you told me that. TV on, sound off."

I smiled. She'd nailed me once more. She slurped coffee. A few drops rolled off the bottom of her mug. I noticed there were crumbs all over the duvet. I started brushing them onto the empty plate.

"You don't need to do that."

"Yeah, I do."

She went silent. I had basically told her she lived like a pig – who was I to throw shit around?

"Sorry," I said.

"You need to stop saying that."

She pulled up the duvet, kept her robe on.

"I get... I get a bit fussy about things," I said. "I can't help it."

I put the plate down.

"Is that because of prison?"

I flashed a look. It must have been terrible because she edged a few inches across the mattress and scooped up Felix.

We were silent for a while, listening to the rain and the hum of the radiator. Felix sprang off the bed, curled down beside it.

"Felix has the right idea," I said. "He's lovely."

It was a tentative olive branch but she accepted it at once. We talked. Abi did most of it. She told me her family were from Greece, originally, and had settled in London thirty years ago. She told me about her brother in the military. She told me about her aunt. She told me about her uncle in prison. She told me about work and how she was saving for a car and taking driving lessons. She told me she was in arrears with her bills and was looking for another job, during the day, to prop up her life. She was so normal, so very normal, and it suffocated me and allowed me to breathe at the same time.

"I can talk a lot," she said.

"I like it."

She asked me about Belfast, childhood, my family. I talked a little, but not as much.

"Did they ever catch who killed him?"

"The men who did it are probably on the TV wearing suits. Ireland is a different place."

"I'd like to go there. I've been to Wales and Scotland but never Ireland. We could go together."

"Sure."

"Is Kina an Irish name?"

"No." I laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing."

She poked me. "Tell me."

"It's not even my proper name. Mum wanted Ingrid but Dad put his foot down. He wanted his daughter to have a Jamaican name. Sakina was the name he chose."

"Sakina is a lovely name. Why did you shorten it?"

I laughed again. "I didn't."

It was a story that had been told a hundred times before. Now it would be a hundred and one.

"It's not even Jamaican. I think it's Arabic or something. Only when Dad registered my birth they couldn't understand him." I smiled, fondly. "He had a strong accent and a very deep voice. _Sakina,_ he kept saying... _Sakina, Sakina._ "

She laughed with me.

"They couldn't understand him. Kina was all they got and that was what they put on the birth certificate. I think he was happier with that in the end."

"Do you miss him?"

I loosened the belt on her robe. "No more talking," I said.

* * *

She slept.

I took my cigarettes into the living room, grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the fridge and switched on Abi's laptop.

It was just after 8am when she woke me. Daylight streamed into the flat. Dalston was bustling.

"Kina?"

The laptop was still on, screen covered in images.

I rubbed my eyes, yawned, reached for my cigarettes. "Can you help put these on my phone and print them out as well?

She folded her arms.

"Do you not have a printer?" I asked.

FOURTEEN

I had a horrible experience on the train down to Surrey. I should've seen it as an omen for what was going to be an incredibly hard day.

It hadn't started brightly. Abi had trouble with the printer whilst I grabbed a quick shower. I could use a laptop but connecting it to a printer was beyond me. She really lost her patience with it and even shouted at Felix as he clawed at the jammed paper, tried to climb inside the open lid and finally stepped in a leaking ink cartridge. She might have laughed under different circumstances but there was a cramped and tense atmosphere that morning. I guessed I was the reason for it. She hadn't liked waking to an empty bed.

Felix made his escape onto the top of the fridge and climbed into a dusty-looking wicker basket, peeking over with innocent glassy eyes. Abi managed to get the thing working and print off the pages I'd asked for. Felix relaxed in his basket, disinterested, and set about cleaning his paws.

I thanked her, towelled off, dressed. I was lacing up my trainers when I saw her setting the kitchen table for breakfast.

"I don't have time," I said.

She'd been shopping the day before and bought croissants and Danish pastry and a box of latte sachets.

I zipped up my fleece, tugged on my jacket and ran my fingers through my hair, tying it back.

"You know what I've got on today, Abi. I'll catch up with you tonight."

She didn't say anything. Felix came down off the fridge, purred round her ankles.

"Did you put the pictures on my phone as well?"

She nodded.

"Thanks."

There was no response. I unbolted the flat door. "I'm sorry."

"It's OK," she said.

But it was far from OK. I couldn't just walk out. Not now.

"Today's important. I can't pick and choose when I go and see her."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I need to see her alone."

"I can wait outside."

I shook my head. "I need to sort this by myself, OK?"

"Sure. You sort it."

She was deflated. I was leaving her arms long before the embrace was over.

"This ain't no place for you today, you get me?"

"What about last night?" Her arms were folded. "What did that mean to you?"

"It meant a lot. More than you'll ever know. But today is today. I need to move. I'll see you at work tonight."

"OK. But I told you, Kina. I don't do one-way. One-way is _that way._ " She pointed at the door. "I like two-way."

I kissed her but she was cold, disappointed. A sour taste filled my gut as I caught a bus to Dalston Junction. There were no seats. Noise bounced round me; chatter about buying presents and planning meals and putting up decorations. The traffic was grid-locked and I was already running late if I wanted to catch the two-minutes past ten to Belmont, Sutton.

I wasn't good for Abi. I didn't know if I would see her again. Shit, I shouldn't have gotten involved so quickly. I was damaged and stunted and no good for her or anyone or anything.

But I had needs, wants.

I shouldn't have complicated it by sleeping with her that first night and going back subsequent nights. She was easily ten years younger than me, impressionable and less hardened.

Only it had been there in that interview. I'd stepped into her office and she'd come out from behind the desk, hand extended, a smile on her lips, a sparkle dancing in her eyes. We hadn't even spoken and the chemistry had buzzed; when it clicked into place like that you didn't even need words to confirm it.

Horns blared. Rain fell and the wipers on the bus squeaked. We inched along and I fumed at the bottle-necked streets. Seconds morphed into hours, or so it seemed. I was ten minutes late getting onto the platform but so was the train, thankfully. I could've got a later train but I didn't want a tight schedule. I wanted to get down into Surrey with plenty of time to spare. I could've asked Douglas for a lift, he would've obliged, but they'd already been to see Olivia this week and I wanted to talk to her on my own. _I needed her alone._ I had questions she might not answer with them around. Besides, I couldn't take any chances that Mum wouldn't turn it into a sparring match.

It's not like I ever fell for that.

* * *

I got hassled on the train. It came from a father and son, both of them white. I was a woman travelling alone, an easy target for them.

So they thought.

The younger one looked smashed out of his head. He had a nasty rash around his throat, half-concealed by his jacket collar. He had cropped hair and a dodgy left eye that stared off in a different direction than the right. His mouth seemed frozen in a sneer, fat lips jutting out. The old man talked with a calm voice. He was in his fifties or sixties with stringy hair and terrible body odour that wafted across the confined seating area. He wore a battered overcoat, unbuttoned, a red football shirt underneath, fraying at the hem.

He sat forward, rubbed his hands. "It's horrible today, ain't it? I reckon on snow. Do you, love? Do you reckon it'll snow? What'd you think?"

The son was slouched in his seat, fiddling with the waistband of his stained bottoms.

"What's your name, love?" said the father. "What do I call you?"

Silently, I watched the landscape flash by.

"I call you nothing then?" said the old man. He leaned back in his seat. "So you're nothing, right? You're nothing."

His son giggled, twanged his waistband. A woman travelling alone would have moved.

Fuck that!

"Just fuck off," I said.

His son plucked out his phone, attempted to take a picture of me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I said.

I smacked his arm away.

He grinned. Saliva covered his brown teeth. "You're well fit, darling," His hand was inside his bottoms.

"Get the fuck away from me."

The old man turned. His quiet demeanour flipped. A stream of hate-filled names came my way. I'd heard them all before. I didn't look for help amongst the dozens of passengers around me. I knew there would be none. Eyes were focused on screens or advertising boards or the scenery or a bag clutched tightly; eyes that were unwilling to glance over, thankful it was me and not them.

I couldn't blame them. Fear was a smothering emotion. It got hold of you and just didn't let go and once it had wormed into your gut you were really fucked. But some people handle fear in a different way. Father and son weren't expecting any backbone. They preyed without resistance. I could've shouted them both down, making it clear, but actions spoke louder.

I snatched the mobile off the son, tossed it along the carriage. He howled at me and clenched his fists, rocking on the balls of his feet. I didn't wait for him to decide if he was going to hit me. I dropped low and jabbed him twice in his groin. He twisted into his seat in agony.

The old man lunged at me. I was too quick for him and backed into the middle of the carriage. I lashed out my leg and stamped on his hip. He recoiled. I stamped on him a second time.

The son was on his feet now, though unsteady. His eyes were watering. He was still sneering. I hit him in the head, knuckles thudding into his temple.

A hulking man appeared, drawn by the shouting. I recognised him at once.

"Need a hand, Kina?"

He had a strong east end accent. I glanced at the father and son, crumpled, stinking and cowering.

I shook my head. "Nah, it's all sorted."

* * *

I couldn't remember his name.

He was about six-two, mid-twenties, huge chest and thick arms swollen against a navy blue puffa jacket.

I knew nothing about him expect that he was one of the security guards where I'd cleaned for Fast Genie. I'd last seen him the night Simon was murdered. I changed at West Croydon and he followed me onto the next train.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the father and son slope off toward the exit.

"Liam," he said. "Liam Naylor. You don't remember me, do you?"

Sitting opposite, he smiled faintly.

"I do remember you," I said.

"Nah, you don't."

He was grinning, thoroughly enjoying himself. I looked through a rain-streaked window.

"You couldn't remember my name."

"I thought it was Leo," I said, smiling.

"Yeah, you were always the serious one. You never laughed at any of my jokes."

I didn't think he'd noticed. "They were never funny."

"Nah, you just weren't paying attention. You remember Jenny? She reckoned you went back to Ireland, the night you skipped out." _The night Simon was murdered._ "Is that where you come from?" he said.

I nodded. "Belfast."

"You ain't got much of an accent or nothing."

"We moved here when I was eleven. It got watered down."

"Nice, nice. You ever go back?"

"I'm not interested, OK?" I really hoped he got that I didn't mean about going back home.

"Nor am I." He flashed a wedding ring. I guessed he was just trying to be friendly or pass the time. His expression straightened. "You getting off at Belmont?"

I chewed over his words.

"My sister," I said.

"My wife."

"What's she in for?"

He wiped a thick hand across his chin. His brown eyes glazed for a moment. He let out a small sigh.

"Shoplifting. She got nine months. Gets out soon."

"That's heavy for shoplifting."

"Yeah, well, she's been nicked before. She's done most of it now."

I took out my mobile, showed him a picture. "My sister and her man, Simon. He got killed. Cops reckon she did it. She's on remand."

Liam stared at the picture. I'd taken it at a curry house in Gants Hill, a few weeks after getting out.

"I read about him. Simon Farley, right? I used to see him down Forest Gate now and then, buying vinyl."

He took out his phone, swiped the screen a few times. "The missus."

She was of Indian heritage, light brown skin, long black hair, playfully holding a cushion and pointing toward the camera phone with a teasing smile. She was gaunt in the face and wore a threadbare cardigan over a vest top and leggings.

"What's her name?"

"Rita."

"She's beautiful."

"Yeah."

"You miss her a lot, right?"

"Yeah." He paused. "I hope it works out for your sister."

"I'm not giving up on her."

"Yeah, you do anything for the ones you love."

He pocketed the phone, spread his thick fingers on his knees and said nothing more until the train reached Belmont.

It was a quaint, typically English village; old buildings and polite residents, plenty of independent shops and restaurants. There were decorations hung in windows and carols playing in the church down the road. It was a world away from what I was used to.

We had plenty of time. Visiting wasn't for another two hours. I smiled at Liam and wondered how I could get rid of him. I didn't want company for two hours. We had little more to say. Our common bond had been work but I no longer worked there – and there was only so much you could talk about a job and the people you worked with. Our new common bond was the prison, my sister on remand, his wife convicted, but I needed air, plenty of it, and I wanted to be on my own.

"Look, I'm gonna do a bit of shopping," he said. "You know what I mean? I'll see you later at the bus stop."

He trudged off, local residents veering out of his way as he came stomping along the narrow pavement, head down.

I lit a cigarette, relieved, and smoked it quickly. I found a fish and chip bar, drank tea, ate cod and chips and watched leaves swirl in the rain-spotted wind.

I pushed aside my plate, unfolded the print outs I wanted to show to Olivia. Taking out my mobile, I sent a text to Abi.

Thanks for helping me. Sorry I had to rush xx

I switched off the phone. I didn't want to get into conversation with her.

* * *

I met up with Liam at the bus stop. I nodded a greeting and we waited silently in the falling rain.

The bus arrived, tyres caked in mud. The doors opened with a hiss. A small crowd climbed onboard. Not everyone was heading out to the prison but it was easy to pick out the ones who were.

The sky was pale with brooding clouds, the wide landscape rain-sodden, bleak and dreary.

I swallowed hard as the prison came into view; buildings behind fences topped with coils of razor-wire. It had been late spring when I'd been transferred here to finish out my sentence after Holloway closed. There had been several hundred of us sent here and more sent to Bronzefield in Ashford.

We got off the bus. I trailed at the back of a small crowd. Liam attempted to walk with me. It was an awkward moment as he realised I wanted to be alone so he steadily drifted into the mix of visitors. I could still see him. He stood head and shoulders above them.

Two magpies pecked at the lawn near the prison gate, tossing aside brown leaves, taking flight as we approached. I watched them, marvelled at their speed and beauty, and closed my eyes for a second, wishing I could fly.

There was a large metal sign: WELCOME TO HMP DOWNVIEW.

My throat tightened. I thrust my hands into my pockets, bunched into fists. Head down, I went back inside.

FIFTEEN

Her left eye was bruised. There were scratches on her neck.

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter." She was hoarse, timid, curled in her seat.

"Where have they put you?"

"The juvenile unit. It's horrible. Some of the girls are..."

The sentence choked in her throat. She clutched the edge of the table that divided us.

The visiting hall was crowded. I saw Liam with his wife. The girl had no meat on her and a big habit to kick. More than shoplifting had put her here.

Olivia snatched my hands. "Get me out of here, Kina." She raised her eyes. "Please. _Please._ "

"I'm working on it."

"Today," she whispered.

"What?"

"Please."

"Olivia, I can't."

"You have to. Let me go with you. Right now. I don't care. We can go on the run. You know people."

She attempted to rise from her chair. I pinned her wrists to the table.

"Don't fuck around, Olivia. This isn't a game. Do you want me in here as well?"

She stared at me. "Yes."

"Jesus," I gasped. "You need to..."

"I need to what?" Her voice was low, cold. "I can't stay here. I can't. Don't make me stay here."

My stomach clenched. "I'm trying to get you out. We're all trying. Mum, Douglas, your solicitor... and me. I need you to calm down, OK?"

Her shoulders folded, eyes drifted.

"I've never been in trouble before. Never. Not once, Kina, not like you. You're used to all this." I said nothing. "I had to stand up in court, plead not guilty. Can you imagine what that was like?" She shivered. "They put me in a cell. They wouldn't let me see anyone, not even Mum and Dad. I was crying so much. When I got here I had to undress with one of the officers. It was humiliating."

She began to rub her hands, over and over. There was dirt under her nails.

"I can't eat. I can't sleep. I keep going to the toilet." She pulled out a tissue, blew her nose. "That's when this happened." She pointed at her bruise. "A few girls got pissed off at me."

"Did you report it?"

"I was going to but a woman called Alice told me not to. She said things can get really bad if you grass."

I nodded.

"I didn't kill him, Kina. I loved Simon. I still do ... I still do. I just want to go home. I want him there waiting for me."

There was no going home. It was murder and there was only remand and time spent waiting for trial,

"I'm going to find out the truth," I said.

She hadn't heard me. _She couldn't._ She was suffocating.

"I know I lied about us arguing but I didn't follow him that night. I swear it. Can you imagine _me_ walking anywhere?"

She laughed, bitter and hollow.

"They have evidence against me. What if I go to trial and no one believes me? I'm just a _stupid white bitch._ " She hushed her voice. "That's what they're calling me. It's what I am, isn't it?"

"Fight back."

She tilted her head, tears appearing.

"I can't _. I don't know how to_. Everyone is in these little gangs. The way they talk and act." She paused. "Some of them talk about you."

I nodded. "Find someone who will protect you. No matter what they want for it."

"Are you serious? Kina, there are people here who talk to themselves. Jesus, what am I doing here?"

"Help me find his killer."

She flared. "I didn't kill him."

"Someone did."

My voice hit her like a fist. There was a terrible realisation in her eyes. _Someone did._ The words began to jump around in her head. His killer was still out there, free to walk around and go to the supermarket and watch TV and sleep at night.

"We need to start figuring this out or you're going to trial. Was anyone getting in his face?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Olivia, was he buying that night?"

"No, he didn't touch drugs."

"He was killed in gang territory. A lot of dealing goes on down there."

"Simon didn't even smoke."

"What about Floyd Wickman?"

She scratched her cheek. "Who?"

"The seventies singer," I said. "The one you told me about. He was doing drugs, wasn't he?"

"In the past. I don't know about now. He wouldn't have hurt Simon."

"No, that's not what I mean. Was Simon getting drugs for him?"

She hissed at me. "He wasn't buying drugs. Not everyone is into drugs. Not like you, Kina."

Her words stung, truth always does. She mouthed a silent apology.

"It doesn't matter," I said, and then I told her what had happened with Smoke and Bounce. "Simon carried the knife for protection. He knew what it was like at Pelham Grove. Wind back to that night. You got home and argued, right?"

A guard strolled past, eyes on me. She'd been here when I was finishing out my time.

I waited until she'd gone. "What was the argument about?"

"Us."

"How did it end?"

"I told him I was thinking of moving back home. It had worked at the start. We had a fantastic first Christmas together. I could see nothing but arguments for our second one. He'd changed so much. He was distant and moody... how is this going to help?"

I placed my hands on the table. "Do you think who killed him is going to stroll in off the street and confess? A lot of people get done by someone they know."

She wasn't getting it.

"I know his phone was taken but this might not have been a street robbery. It might have been something personal against Simon."

Now the fog was clearing. "He cried. Is that what you want to hear? He got really upset and then he got angry because he was upset. He went into the kitchen to calm down. I stayed in the front room. He took a call and then he said he was going to buy some chocolate at the shop past where... where he was attacked."

"He didn't need chocolate. I saw stacks of it in your kitchen cupboard. And the shop was closed, I checked."

I paused.

"What call?"

"He said it was a message from Floyd about the album."

"What kind of message?"

She thought for a moment.

"He didn't say."

"Could Floyd have been arranging a meet with Simon?"

"I don't know, Kina."

Reaching into my pocket, I took out the sheets of paper, fanned them out across the table.

"These are all the pictures I could find online from the ACS event in August. You said he changed after that. It could be where he met the woman you saw on his phone. This is who you were arguing about, right? You said she was older than him. What if she's married and her husband found out they were having an affair. That's a fucking big motive for shanking someone, you get me? Look at the pictures. Is she here?"

She bunched the cuff of her sweatshirt into her left hand, wiped her eyes and nose, leaned forward. My heart burned as I watched her. I'd been an out of control teenager when she'd come into the world. She'd tempered me. It had begun to smooth out the rough edges. I'd begun to value different things. But even through the positive times it had still been there in me; that flow of feelings that surged and drowned me from time to time. Truth was I didn't belong. I wasn't worth anything. I didn't have meaning or purpose. And whatever I loved would be stolen away from me, I knew that. Dad was gone. I wasn't losing Olivia.

"I don't believe it," said Olivia. Her grubby finger stabbed the page.

I spun it round and saw a crowded hall with dozens of faces.

"Who am I looking at?"

"There," she said, impatient.

It was Simon, a black shirt open at the throat, dark green sports jacket, broad smile, glass in hand and talking to a brunette in a sparkling blue dress.

I frowned. "I thought you said the woman on his phone was blonde and older."

She whispered. " _He took her instead of me_. I had the flu, Kina. I couldn't go."

"Olivia, is this her?"

"No."

"Then who is she?" I said.

"Melanie French," she said, angrily. "Simon's ex-girlfriend."

* * *

It was dark when I got back to Dalston.

I'd travelled with Liam on the bus but he hadn't looked for me on the train. I was glad. I wanted to be alone. I guessed he was feeling the same. It left a stain on you, a mark, something outsiders couldn't see or even begin to understand, but it was there, always. Whatever side of the table you sat, it was with you. Some people didn't get it. I got it. So did Liam. That was why he needed to be alone. But he was lucky; his wife was coming home, Olivia might never walk out of that place.

The rain had stopped but it was cold, damp. I hung back, lit a cigarette and loitered in the shadows.

The streets were busy. There was too much noise. I began to sweat. Times like this I wanted to take off, disappear. Get on a bus anywhere, start new; a woman with no past or future. Or get a passport and board a plane or a boat and travel the world, find a hot beach, not that I was used to much sun. Belfast was a city of murky days.

Tears filled my eyes. A woman stepped out of the station and hesitated, noting the distress I was showing. She thought better of it and melted into the crowds. Maybe there was a family waiting for her. A loving husband preparing dinner, wine open, radio playing, Christmas tunes, a couple of children upstairs, surrounded by devices, chatting with friends as they completed homework, household geared for the big day.

Why the fuck would she risk all that to stop and help a stranger?

I started walking, directionless. I had to go home, freshen up for work. But then I wanted to hit the street tonight and I couldn't do both. I needed to talk to Abi. She had to let me take a night off. There was shit that needed doing and could only be done at night.

I switched my mobile back on and a stream of text messages landed.

Mum, Abi, Jade...

Flicking away my cigarette, I shouldered open the door of a brightly-lit laundrette, dropped onto the nearest empty bench. Drums spun and clanked.

There were seven messages from Abi; _police came to the flat... what's going on?_

A stack of them from Mum; _what are you bloody doing? Cops at the house._ _I've got enough to worry about. I don't want you getting into anymore trouble._

I didn't even read the messages from Jade. I pocketed the phone, ran my hands through my hair and ducked outside.

I hadn't done anything.

Smoke and Bounce? No, boys like that didn't go running to the cops. More likely they would've told no one they got a beat down from a girl!

But I couldn't run. I wouldn't. I was here to stay. If the cops wanted me then they could come and get me.

I didn't have long to wait. I had barely taken a drag of a cigarette when headlights slashed across me. An interior light blinked on as the doors opened. Two white cops got out. They wore suits. The man was slender and brown-haired, late forties. He held his warrant card as he came toward me.

"Detective Chief Inspector Bailey." He pointed at his colleague. "That's Detective Sergeant Macklin. Are you Kina McKevie?"

He was Welsh. His brown eyes bulged. He looked a bastard. I got why Olivia had been intimidated.

"Yeah."

"Detective Sergeant Macklin is going to perform a legal search of you."

He folded his arms, leaned against the car, engine still running.

The woman detective came at me. She waved her warrant card. "Detective Sergeant Macklin..."

"I know who the fuck you are."

Her mouth tightened. "You are not under arrest but I am going to conduct a legal search of you. I have reason to believe you are in possession of a weapon. Once I've concluded the search you will be able to obtain a record..."

I unzipped my jacket, tossed it at her.

"Get the fuck on with it."

She crushed my jacket, finding nothing to cause panic. Then she frisked me.

Macklin was in her thirties, skin raw against her bones, a mean and sour look in her faded blue eyes; failed relationships, disillusion in her job, it was all there. She was roughly the same height as me, about five nine, but carrying more weight, far less muscle.

"Do you have a problem with me searching you?"

Her voice had dropped. Bailey wasn't interested in her chatter. He had his eyes on Dalston.

"Do your thing," I said.

"Oh, I will. How's your sister? Is she getting fucked up on remand?"

Her hands glided along my outstretched arms.

"Did you give her tips on how to kill her boyfriend?"

She saw the rage in my eyes and stoked the fire even more.

"I know you were involved. You might have been working the night Simon Farley was stabbed but you were part of it, McKevie. I intend to prove that connection and then you're back inside."

She stepped back, wiped her hands, slow and deliberate.

"Eleven years for a man's life. You should've never been released. Maybe you can share a cell with your sister when you go back. She can be your bitch."

I unclenched my fists. "You done?"

Macklin raised her voice, all for her DCI. "Thank you for your co-operation, Miss McKevie. Now would you..."

A voice in the dark suddenly cried out. "What the fuck you messing with that girl for, fed?"

Another shouted. "Feds in the yard."

I shrugged into my jacket, faced Bailey. "You want to put me in the car or wait for it to get ugly?"

I knew Belfast. He knew Dalston. I was bundled into the car, hastily driven away. I bounced around in the back.

"What the fuck is this all about?" I said.

"Danny Renshaw," said DCI Bailey.

He was at the wheel. He watched for my reaction in the rear-view mirror – there wasn't one.

"Who the fuck is Danny Renshaw?"

DS Macklin turned in her seat. "He's dead, that's who he is. Shot twice in the face. But you already know that, correct?"

SIXTEEN

They placed me in an interview room, switched on the tape machine and showed me photographs of Renshaw. He was white, forties, unshaven, ashen-faced, bullet holes and blood stains.

Fuck!

"What was your relationship with him?" asked DCI Bailey.

I kept calm.

"No relationship."

"Granted, he doesn't look at his best in these photographs."

"I don't know him."

"What did you buy from him?"

"Nothing, I don't know him."

"What are you planning?"

"Nothing, I don't know him."

"Take a good look at these photographs."

I didn't have to. I knew a lot of people. I didn't know Renshaw. "You have me mixed up with someone else," I said.

Macklin leaned forward.

"I think you're the one who's mixed, Miss McKevie."

She took off her jacket, arms bulging beneath a pin-striped shirt. A police lanyard hung round her neck.

"What do you think?" she asked.

That was the way she was going to play it. I didn't answer. I didn't give her any attitude.

"Well?" I still didn't answer her. She unbuttoned her sleeves, folded them back. A simple bracelet dangled on her left wrist. "We have a witness that places you outside the flat of Danny Renshaw."

"I don't think so."

"The witness has clearly identified you," said Macklin. "Are you sure you don't require a solicitor?"

"I don't need a suit to talk for me."

"What were you doing at his flat?" said Bailey.

"Nothing, I don't know him."

"You were there," said Macklin. "We know you were there. Stop lying to us."

"I don't know him."

"This isn't the best way to begin with us, Miss McKevie," said Bailey. "By trotting out lie after lie."

"What were you doing at the flat?" said Macklin.

"How well did you know him?" said Bailey.

"What are you planning?" said Macklin.

"Are you getting back in the game?" said Bailey.

I let out a sigh. Cops were cops. They did their thing. I was used to them. Here in London, back in Belfast. I'd grown up on streets of rubble, petrol bombs stinging my nostrils, melodies of marching bands during the summer, gas and plastic bullets and helicopters buzzing overhead. Cops had been with me all my life. They were part of the tapestry for every child of Ireland and youth of England.

"Where were you Tuesday morning?" asked Macklin.

She started to work me over. Bailey became an observer, chipping in now and then. Macklin was his pet dog and he was happy to sit on a bench whilst his bitch shit all over the park. I wondered if he had a bag for her.

"With a friend," I answered, subdued.

She consulted her notebook. "Abigail Costas. I understand you know her as Abi. Is that correct?"

"Sure."

"And you spent the night with Miss Costas in her one-bedroom flat, correct?"

I gave her a look. "Yeah."

"Did you share her single bedroom?"

"Yeah."

"You're sleeping with her, correct?"

I nodded.

"For the tape please, Miss McKevie," said Bailey.

I leaned toward the machine. "Yeah."

"And in the morning you left, correct?" asked Macklin.

"Yeah."

"What time did you leave her one-bedroom flat?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Try to remember."

"I have a lot going on." I stared at Bailey. "My sister is on remand."

"Miss McKevie," he said, his tone rising. "No more games. What time did you leave the flat in Dalston?"

"Early, mid-morning, something like that."

"And where did you go?" pressed Macklin.

"Out and about."

"Out and about where?"

Silence.

"Did you go out and about to Pelham Grove?" said Macklin.

Silence.

"Did you meet with this man?" said Bailey.

He spread a new crop of photographs across the table. Renshaw was alive in these shots.

Oh, shit...

"You recognise him now?" said Macklin.

"Tell us about your relationship with him," said Bailey.

Surveillance photographs – Renshaw leaving his flat, putting a holdall in the boot of his car, parking at a market, unloading the holdall.

"I only saw him the once."

An unshaven man peered out of a kitchen window hung with brightly-coloured tinsel, a bowl of cereal in his hands.

I ran a hand through my hair. "I never spoke to him. I didn't know him."

"Did he cheat you?" said Macklin.

"What?"

"Tell us what you bought from him," said Bailey.

"I told you I never..."

"Did you try and get your money back?" said Macklin.

"Money back?"

"What did you buy from him?" said Bailey.

They hammered me with questions. My gaze flitted between them. This is how it would have been for Olivia.

I took a breath, calmly leaned toward the tape machine. "Charge me or let me go." I sat back, arms folded. "You got shit."

"We have you outside Mr Renshaw's flat in Pelham Grove," said Macklin.

"So what?"

"Did you kill him because of the damaged weapons?"

Bailey interrupted her. "Where were you yesterday between 11 and 12pm?"

"Working."

"Again?" said Macklin.

"You fitted up my sister for a killing she didn't do. You're not doing the same with me."

Bailey spoke into the tape, terminating the interview. He switched it off, with a loud clunk.

Voices echoed along the corridor outside. There were footsteps, doors opening and closing.

Bailey met my gaze. "Your sister wasn't fitted up." He paused. "We conducted a thorough investigation and pieced together evidence that points to her as the killer. The CPS agreed to prosecute. Now it's for the court to decide. Don't ever suggest I bent the rules or massaged evidence. Do you understand me?"

He'd silenced me.

"We need details of your work. Give them to Sergeant Macklin and once they've been verified you'll be free to leave."

He slammed the door on his way out.

"Great," said Macklin. She pushed back her chair. "Now you've pissed him off for the rest of the night."

"What happened to Sergeant Corrigan? Can't I deal with her?"

"You're too white for Corrigan," said Macklin, smiling. "And too black for me. And you're too Irish for all of us... do you _get me?_ "

She picked up her pen. "You don't pick and choose, Kina. Is it alright if I call you Kina?"

* * *

I reluctantly lifted a wire basket, let it hang from my hand, trying to fit in, be normal, unnoticed among regular people.

Macklin had burned away a good few layers of confidence, left me feeling the pain of my life.

It was a little after eleven, black outside, giant supermarket windows spattered with rain, traffic zipping along, slowed by the grind of night buses. My stomach gurgled. I had no idea what to buy or where to begin. I hadn't put a cooked meal together since leaving prison, existing on takeaways, toast, pre-packed sandwiches and biscuits from Mr Bhola's shop.

A blue-uniformed black man with SECURITY emblazoned across his jacket found himself in every brightly-lit aisle I wandered into. He was wasting his time. I wasn't out to lift and I'd be too good for him if I was.

I passed two women and several young men replenishing gaps in the freezers. The women were in their late-forties; straight brown hair with hints of grey, blue uniforms hiding bodies dulled by the routine of a wedding ring. They had plenty of chat for the young men alongside them, who weren't particularly good-looking, but that wasn't important, and the boys played along, underestimating how serious the women were with looks that lingered.

I found the microwave meals. _Korma? Tikka? Bolognese?_ I couldn't focus. The security dude was still following, my basket was still empty and the married women were still making jokes about sausages. Abi was bouncing in my head. I'd let the girl down. She'd gone out on a limb employing an ex-con and I'd fucked it up already. There was no point heading to Hackney. I was already late and she would react the same way as Fast Genie had. I'd been given a chance on the understanding I kept clean. Now the cops had been at her flat and her place of work. I didn't want to face her.

Crushed by disappointment, I ditched the basket, bought a bottle of brandy and a box of cigarettes and headed for the train station.

There were teenagers on the platform. Two girls wearing ankle-length coats open over skimpy tops and short skirts, and three boys, jeans and sweatshirts. They were drunk and loud and so damn young, but not looking for trouble. They didn't bother me or anyone else waiting to go home.

One of the girls was putting on a show. She was skinny with wavy ginger hair that flowed down her back. She jumped onto a bench, singing and dancing. Her makeup sparkled under the station lights. One of the boys was filming her and she wasted no time in giving him plenty to upload. Coat open, she tugged down her skimpy top. All the boys were filming her now. She popped her boobs away and vaulted at one of the guys, kissing him as she landed in his arms.

I leaned against a large metal platform sign, staring vacantly at the clogged rails below.

It got worse onboard the train. The girl danced through the carriage, leaping onto empty seats and singing, her voice screechy and tuneless. The boys cheered her on, demanding more. Her hand went beneath her skirt and out came her underwear, what there was of it. Her friend, mostly subdued on the platform, joined in, but she had no intention of taking anything off so the boys only half-heartedly included her.

I left the teenagers at Stratford station and walked briskly from the clattering trains and brightly-lit concourse. Head ducked against the wind, home was fifteen minutes away, a cold and empty flat, my choice, but still home. The bag twisted in my right hand, cigarettes and brandy.

In gloomy doorways there were people sleeping rough, bedded down for the night beneath layers of blankets, duvets, cardboard and newspaper. I'd never been on the street, not like that. I'd run away from Billy a few times but he'd always known which friend I'd fled to and it was usually Jade. She would sit and listen to me pour out my love and hate for him in equal measure and hold my hand, telling me there was a way out and all I had to do was take it.

I reached a zebra crossing. Traffic roared through, headlights dazzling. There were a few people on foot, milling around. I punched the button, lit a cigarette. A man with a moustache and a holdall thrown over his shoulder waited with me.

I didn't look at him; he didn't look at me.

There was shouting from behind, off toward darkened streets. A group of hooded youths sprinted through the shadows, chasing someone or running from something they'd already done. They quickly disappeared, voices fading.

I continued to wait.

There was a green off to my left with bushes and a bench with a plaque. A concrete and glass office building loomed over it. In the shadows was a down-and-out, sitting under a small tarpaulin marquee, bags of junk all around him. He had one companion, a skinny-looking dog wrapped in a blanket, curled in a bed, one paw clutching a teddy bear with a red jumper.

The crossing light went green. Cars slowed, impatient night drivers fuming at any red lights thrown against them. The guy with the holdall crossed. I didn't. I lingered, strangely unable to take my eyes off the homeless guy and his dog and that worn little teddy bear. There was something incredibly broken about them, nothing hopeful, no point, one step up from the food-encrusted wrappers that rustled in the wind, one step away from where I could end up.

A horn blared. My eyes spun. The driver jabbed a finger at the green man light as it blinked. There were only seconds to cross. I jogged forward and the driver revved his engine and nudged toward me. I sprang onto the pavement, as he tore through, and spun round with a mouthful of abuse.

I couldn't see the homeless man and his dog from here; the guy had picked a good spot.

I followed the main road. Street lamps burned against the night sky. A few cars went by, one slowing as it passed me, the driver looking me over the way men do, like it's a fucking right. The prick saw something he didn't fancy, most likely the scowl on my face, and drove away. I was glad, I didn't need another arsehole. It had already been a shitty day; the argument with Abi, trouble on the train, seeing Olivia, getting lifted by the cops, but oddly all that was pale in my thoughts. The homeless guy bothered me. The homeless guy and his thin dog with the teddy bear. I couldn't understand why.

There were side roads in darkness, rows of terraced houses, lines of parked vehicles almost bumper to bumper. The rain had eased off. I skirted the puddles. Tower blocks choked the skyline, a few flats lit up with Christmas lights - it seemed the city was on the verge of one big party that I hadn't been invited to. _Fuck, I had to stop this feeling sorry for myself shit._

A helicopter clattered overhead, the rhythmic beating of blades quickly fading as it swooped toward Stratford station, on the hunt.

I reached a parade of shops. Chicken Shack was the only one open, serving until 1am, its lights a beacon.

All the businesses along here had changed hands since I'd been away, probably a few times over. The Indian newsagent I'd bought cigarettes in was now a European mini-market and next door was an Afghan convenience store that had been a bakery. There was a shop that sold and repaired mobile phones. That was definitely new. An alarm on the wall above blinked repeatedly. I couldn't remember what it had replaced. I think it had been a DVD rental store. There were two charity shops, side by side, one for cancer, one for mental health. That had been one shop when we'd first moved into the area, selling hardware in one half and groceries and cheap plastic toys in the other. It was the first shop I'd ever stolen from.

I stopped outside the takeaway, took a final drag from my cigarette. All my senses screamed at once. I casually threw a glance down the road, toward home, five minutes away, nothing more than that.

The car sat under a busted street lamp, lurking, ready to pounce. It wasn't the guy that had looked me over – this was a different vehicle.

A land cruiser, the size of a tank, black with red markings and tinted windows.

I'd seen it before but I couldn't place where. I needed to sharpen up my observation skills if I was going to make any kind of investigator.

SEVENTEEN

I stepped into the takeaway.

An olive-skinned guy wearing a heavy overcoat and a football scarf was at the till, paying for his order.

There were no other customers.

He kept his eye on me as I studied the menu above the counter. The guy serving was wiry, dark-haired, early-thirties. A radio was playing, a heap of chat in a language I didn't understand.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

I ordered spicy wings, fries and a burger. I dug a crumpled note from my pocket, set it on the counter. A second guy appeared. He was clearly the brother of the guy serving me. The man with the football scarf had his food but was hanging around, half-chatting to the brothers as he watched me.

I stared onto the street, thinking. No surprise my alibi had stood up. Bailey couldn't tie me to the shooting of this Renshaw dude. The blonde who'd seen me that morning must have given up my description. Renshaw had been under the spotlight. He was in the game. Was there a connection between his shooting and Simon's stabbing? This kind of shit went down all the time in Newham. _Someone got shot? Oh, right. Another kid stabbed? Oh, OK._ It didn't shock. But the killings were right on top of each other, only a few weeks apart and my gut told me it was no coincidence.

"Here you go, miss," said one of the brothers.

He slid a flimsy-looking box across the counter. I placed it into the plastic bag I was carrying and nodded a silent thank-you.

Outside, a group had appeared across the road, four young men on bikes, hoods raised, caps and scarves.

"I have plenty here," said the olive-skinned man. I didn't pay him any mind. I was looking through the takeaway window. I suddenly realised the guy was chatting to me, holding up a bag filled with several food boxes. "Come back and share it with me."

"No, thanks."

"It is safe. I am not a..." He paused, struggling for the right words. "I am not a man who hurts a woman."

"You're safe with Ratty," said one of the brothers from behind the counter.

"True, true," said Ratty. His teeth sparkled beneath the overhead lights. "I am not a bad man."

There was softness in his voice and manner but in his charming eyes was the glint of a womaniser. He was in his fifties, body beginning to fail, but the guy still had the libido of a teenager.

"I have to get home," I said.

"Well," said Ratty, pointing. "You don't want to hang around there out. Why don't you get a cab home? I can call you one."

He took out his phone.

"Let me call you a cab," he said.

"No, it's OK."

He slipped on a pair of reading glasses.

"Do you want a cab?" asked one of the brothers. There was a phone on the wall. He grabbed the receiver. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't want a cab." I must have snapped because the three men went silent. "I'm only down the road. It's OK."

The youths cycled over and leaned up against the windows, voices snapping. One of the brothers was getting angry, waving his arms at them. The other one was trying to calm him down.

The hoodies had eyes on me. "Go home, Ratty," I said. "Worry about yourself, man."

"I am worrying about you, young lady."

"This young lady's all good," I said, not even looking at him. "Hey, is Ratty really your name?"

He leaned toward me, lowered his voice. I caught a whiff of alcohol. "No, but these _immigrants_..." He nodded at the two brothers. "They wouldn't be able to _announce_ my name. Are you sure you will be OK?"

"I'm sure."

"Don't be frightened." He curled his lip. "These boys play at gangsters. They stick together because they are cowards. At the end of the night they run home to Mummy and Daddy and Xbox. I was born in Albania. Youth gangs in Albania are scary. But not here."

He tightened his scarf, said goodnight. There was a rush of cold air as he stepped outside.

But the door didn't close. A hand slammed against it. Two of the hooded youths strutted into the takeaway. They held the door. A tall black man walked in, expensive trainers squeaking on the tiled floor. He was early-twenties, baggy clothes, a scar on his face.

_Black car, red markings, windows tinted..._ _it was the badman who'd clipped me the morning after Simon had been stabbed._

"Yo, Kina." He swaggered toward me. "Need to talk to you."

I didn't respond. He guessed fear. He was wrong. I was working out moves.

"I didn't know that was you a few weeks back, feel me? I wasn't out to diss you or nothing."

The takeaway door closed. His boys threw a note onto the counter, ordered a stack of chicken pieces.

The man with the scar rubbed his hands. "That's a cold fucking night out there, Kina. Sit down, we need to chat."

There wasn't much of a choice. _Choice?_ The word floated in my head. I thought of the homeless man, his skinny dog and that pitiful-looking teddy bear.

"Come on, girl, sit."

I lowered into a seat. He sat opposite me. He was handsome and he knew it, even with the scar. He was a proper gangster. He wasn't scratching round the edges. This guy was the real deal, another Billy Ingram; money and power and control. I slowly reached into my bag and curled my hand round the neck of the brandy bottle.

"I wanted to apologise for banging into you, feel me? You remember? The day you were coming out the pig house. Will you accept my apology?"

There was no sincerity in his voice. It didn't matter because there was none in mine, either.

"Sure," I said.

A grin spread across his face.

"Cool, cool, that's good. But see, hear this, that was some raw shit you did at Pelham Grove, feel me? Smoke and Bounce thought you were a cheap sket that needed fucking. Man, those boys didn't know who you were."

"I'm no one."

"Nah, you ain't no one, feel me? Those clowns serving chicken are no one. But not you. Been a long time since you walked these streets but that don't make you no one."

Smoke and Bounce weren't amongst his crew. These youths were older. "Why are we talking?" I asked.

"I came to apologise. I told you. Now I've done that. That's over with, feel me? But Smoke and Bounce, man, they got unfinished shit with you. Only I'm gonna sort that for you so you don't need to wet your bed at night."

"You're gonna sort it?"

"Yeah, it's all good."

"I don't need you to sort anything for me."

"For real? Smoke and Bounce want to put you down, feel me? But I'm gonna smooth that out for you."

"You didn't hear me," I said. "You don't sort shit for me, you get me?"

"Nah, it's all good."

I shook my head. "I can't believe _HE-7_ are still doing shit."

" _HE-7_?" He laughed, glanced over at his boys. They laughed with him. "Nah, we don't know nothing about that. We ain't no gang. No gangs round here. Nothing, feel me? Just hanging, it's all good."

He was too young to have taken over at the time I killed Billy, though he was the top boy now, that much was certain, controlling the drugs, the girls, the violence.

I tightened my grip on the brandy bottle. "My chicken's getting cold, man. What do you want?"

He kissed his teeth.

"Smoke and Bounce want to rip your cunt. I told them you ain't no fucking grimy sket, that you gang royalty. You _were_ someone back in the day. Billy was lion of _HE-7_ and you were his beautiful lioness. So they ain't gonna do shit to you, feel me? So now you owe me, you owe me, Kina, yeah?"

He extended a bunched fist.

"I don't think so."

I left him and his gold hanging. He eased back in his chair, showed me the pistol tucked into his waistband.

"Like that?" I said.

"Like that."

"Do it then, badman."

His hand shot across the table, curled around my throat. I swung with the brandy bottle, aiming for his head, but he squeezed tight, slammed me against the table. He was much stronger than me and pinned me down. I heard the brothers cry out for him to let me go. There was shouting and the scrap of bladed weapons being drawn.

He sprang from his seat, the pistol in his fist. He ground the muzzle into my temple, cold steel drilling into flesh.

"You ain't no fucking lioness now, bitch. You're a rabid dog just like everyone else round here, feel me? I could drop you like that, you and your sister. But I don't need the feds on me. Bodies are bad for business and business is what I'm in this shit for. Fucking lioness, yeah?"

He spat on me.

"Bitch, you owe me. That's how it is, feel me? When I come knocking you do what I need doing."

He took his hand off my throat, eased back into his chair. He tore the seal off the brandy, slid it across the table.

"Drink," he said.

Choices...

His crew were holding swords. The brothers were frozen behind the counter. I was on my own.

"Drink," he said.

His saliva was in my hair. But I still drank. I needed it. He grinned, helped himself.

"Feds take you in tonight, yeah?"

Choices...

"What the fuck did they want, Kina?"

I wiped the mouth of the bottle, drank.

"They hassling you about your sister? Yeah, I heard she got sent down on remand. I know people in Downview. Do you need her protected?"

Choices...

"Stay away from her."

"I ain't gonna do nothing to her. I don't know her. But things happen in prison, feel me? So let's make sure things don't happen. What the fuck did the feds want with you tonight?"

"Danny Renshaw, the guy that got shot at Pelham Grove."

"What did you tell the feds?"

I frowned. "Nothing. I don't know nothing. What the fuck do you care?"

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

Oh, shit...

"No more talking to the feds," he said, getting to his feet. "No more sticking your fucking nose in or you and your sister get fucked up, feel me?"

He smoothed his clothes, grinned.

"Your choice, Kina."

That was it. No choices left for the homeless man and his dog. The clock had run out on them.

But there were a few left for me. And giving up wasn't one of them, no matter what this prick with the gun thought.

EIGHTEEN

After a long shower, I reheated my food.

Sitting in darkness, leggings, a thick jumper and the duvet, I ate. The TV was on, volume off, the perfect companion. London breathed through the early hours. I poured a glass of brandy, lit a cigarette. There was noise outside, _always_ some kind of noise, but moments of stillness, too.

I dragged on my cigarette, tasting chicken wings. I tightened the duvet round me as the temperature fell below freezing.

My glass was empty. I picked up the bottle.

The soreness in my throat had already passed but there was redness from where the prick had grabbed me.

The brothers in the takeaway had told me not to call the police. I had no intention of doing that anyway. One of them offered to drive me home. I told him I would be OK.

"Who is he?" I'd asked.

One of them ran a finger down his cheek. "They call him Scarface. Like in the movie."

Scarface had killed Renshaw. I was certain of that. He had the same cold look that Billy used to have. I didn't know why Renshaw had been shot and I didn't care unless it was linked to Simon. And then a terrible thought landed in my brain - had Scarface killed Simon? The killings had occurred within spitting distance. But it was unlikely. Scarface would've shanked Simon with his own blade. Besides, the witness for the cops had nailed Olivia, not a man. The solicitor knew the identity but he wasn't going to share. Back in the day, Billy would've only had to make a call for information like that to drop into his lap. He'd scared away plenty of witnesses, laughing as cop cases collapsed all around him.

Two killings... I couldn't ignore the possibility they might be connected.

I took out my notebook, jotted a few things down.

But what the hell was I doing? A gun in my head wasn't enough? Scarface had made it clear what would happen if I continued to get involved. I didn't know if he had reach at Downview but I wasn't going to take a chance. Olivia could hardly protect herself now. I didn't want to stir up shit on the inside for her. Renshaw was off limits, a crime that had nothing to do with me. Let Bailey and that bitch Macklin solve it.

Why did Scarface want to scare me off a crime I knew nothing about anyway? That bugged me.

And I knew I wasn't going to let it rest. Despite his threats.

There was a ridiculous quiz show on TV, celebrities who were unknown to me. I picked up the remote, surfed, found a Christmas movie, glossy and American, there was even snow. I left it there, a sucker for fairytales of a perfect family enjoying the perfect day. I'd told no one of that weakness, not even Abi. Thinking of her, I picked up my mobile, sent her a text. She would be home or at _Heaven 101._ I guessed if she was at the bar the predatory Asian in the skin-tight leather trousers would be making a move on her. I stopped thinking of Abi, thought instead of those trousers and that bum.

I needed that right now.

My nose wrinkled. The flat stank of cooked chicken. It was making my stomach want more. I pushed aside the duvet, got up and emptied the bin. I fetched my baton from the bedroom and tucked it into the waistband of my leggings before unlocking the flat door.

The bins were kept in a shared backyard. I couldn't get in there at night. The back door was in the shop, locked and alarmed. There was a communal gate but that was bolted from the inside. I could throw the bag over and collect it in the morning but I'd done that once before and the following morning it had been ripped open by rats or a fox, contents trailed across the yard. That had been a fun clean-up job. I had another place to get rid of this. On the pavement outside was a council rubbish bin. I'd bury the bag in there.

I took the chain off the front door, hesitated as headlights speared the road. A car slowed at the kerb.

I stepped back.

The engine switched off, the lights were doused.

I took out the baton, extended it with a flick of my wrist.

A car door opened, there was a pause, and then it closed, failing at the first attempt to shut properly.

I carefully eased the door ajar and listened.

No movement out there.

My thoughts raced. Fear tried to grab control but there was no time to be afraid, only time to react.

Footsteps on the pavement, slow and cautious. No click of heels, no echo, quiet steps, soft shoes, possibly trainers.

It had to be Smoke and Bounce, a beating and a rape on the cards. My grip on the baton tightened. My knuckles strained. I'd go back inside rather than let them touch me.

See, I'd spent my life surrounded by boys like them. They were fearless, loitering in doorways and on stairwells, selling drugs, day and night. They robbed cars and houses, taking anything, consoles, phones, money and jewellery, not giving a shit, just not giving a fuck about anything. No punishment scared them. Nothing made them doubt or question. This was the only way for them. So they cut and terrorised, they beat and slashed, they made locals cower and hate the lives they had.

Billy had recruited an army of disillusioned and easily-influenced boys, grabbing a generation and placing a knife in their fist, convincing them his crumbling, vermin-infested shit-tip of a yard was worth sacrificing everything for, including your soul, man.

The footsteps hesitated. There were no voices. Perhaps they weren't certain of the address. Mr Bhola's shop was at the end of a terrace with four buildings, no one in the flats above, except me. I was pretty isolated on the corner, it suited me. Douglas had thought it through when he'd fixed this place up; he was a shrewd thinker for such a quiet, inoffensive guy.

My late night visitor started up again. There was only one of them.

Abi?

No, she didn't own a car, though that might have been a cab and he was hanging round until she got in. But the engine was off. A cabbie would be sitting with lights on and engine running.

No, not Abi.

I drew my arm back, half-crouched, took hold of the street door, ready to throw it open and take down whoever it was.

Corrigan?

Maybe she'd heard Bailey and Macklin had been tracking me all day, looking to pin the Renshaw shooting on me. So what? They'd only given me her because she was black and a woman. She claimed she wanted to help. But I couldn't see it. No, I was a case number, nothing more, a file of papers, a file of untidy and disorganised papers. There was no way that was her out there.

Macklin?

Yeah, that fitted the picture just right. The hate-filled bitch was back. Cop or no cop, I was going to take a chunk out of her.

The footsteps stopped outside. A shadow covered the window. I jerked back the door, baton ready to strike.

The woman standing in the doorway gasped, recoiled.

"What are you doing here, Jade?" I said.

NINETEEN

"Did you get my messages?" asked Jade.

I nodded, got her off the street. She wore a huge coat with a hat pulled down over her short brown hair, black leggings and orange trainers.

I led her upstairs. I was _relieved_ it was her. I didn't need any more hassle tonight. I'd imagined her on my doorstep a hundred times but now she was here I wanted her to go. I didn't want her to see my flat. I wasn't ashamed of the place. I wasn't out on the street, like the homeless guy with his dog and the teddy bear I couldn't shake from my thoughts. I'd tried to explain it to Abi. She hadn't got it. I just didn't want anyone here – I needed this place for me and me alone, just for now.

"Sit down," I said. "You might want to keep your coat on. I haven't got the heating on."

She sat, nudging aside the duvet. I rolled it up, carried it into the bedroom, hastily made the bed.

I turned off the TV. I didn't want her to know I watched sugar-coated Christmas movies. I switched on a lamp, stood awkwardly. She hadn't said a word. She probably had a decent flat with framed photographs on the wall and knick-knacks from trips abroad. Maybe a clock that ticked and shelves crowded with books, CDs and DVDs. Magazines on an expensive coffee table. Matching cushions and curtains. Ornaments. Scented candles.

Nothing like that here.

"Do you want a cuppa?" I didn't wait for an answer. I picked up the kettle and then put it down. "Sorry, I don't have any milk."

"I'll take one of those," she said, pointing at the half-empty brandy bottle. "If that's OK?"

I smiled, fetched another glass.

"Did the police catch up with you?"

"Yeah."

"You in trouble, Kina?"

"Nah, it's all good."

"What's going on?"

I let out a deep sigh. She had beautiful green eyes; patient, attentive, warm, always able to coax it from me, no matter what. I'd never been able to hide anything from her. I wasn't going to try now.

Jade was the first friend I'd made when we moved to London, the first English person I'd ever met. She lived in the next street. We attended the same school. I liked her at once and she took to me instantly. I was the freckle-faced girl with the dodgy accent and a wild streak. I lit a fire in her. She wanted to be me. I wanted to be her. She had the life I'd dreamed of; great parents, a cool brother, a nice house. I had Mum, just Mum, forever moaning at me, with Dad's photograph on the wall behind her, his eyes staring down at me. Life was easy for Jade. I didn't resent her or nothing but she was white and the world shaped round her, bending when she required it to. Some nights I cried, wanting to burn the colour from my skin so that for one day, for one moment, I got to know exactly what it was like to be the most important person there is, free of judgement.

But then I grew up. And things wash away when you do that and you realise the world doesn't bend round no one.

Redundancy hit her dad hard. He was a skilled man but losing work broke him and he scraped by on benefits after that, spiralling into drink, self-confidence ebbing away one day at a time. Her mum worked part-time. It wasn't enough. Things disappeared from the house, sold or repossessed. Then her cool brother got sick. There was little sympathy when it emerged he'd been selling and taking drugs. He died of a rare blood complication. Guilt flooded the family. Her dad walked away, leaving just the two of them. He never came back. They never saw or heard from him again. The bills piled up and the bank took the nice house, the nice house that had been no different to ours all those years. The council moved them into the Hoppings, the final nail.

I lit a cigarette, funnelled smoke through my nose.

"Why did you come?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I was worried about you."

"I'm OK."

"Sure you are."

"I am."

"Kina..."

"Jade..."

She smiled at me. "Let's skip going-round-the-houses. Why did the police knock on my door today?"

I told her about the Renshaw shooting and a witness spotting me outside his flat.

"You had nothing to do with that, right?"

"How can you ask me that? It was a coincidence. I'm clean. Maybe if you'd kept in touch you'd know that."

I poured another brandy. Her glass was untouched.

"I said I was sorry. It took time to come to terms with what you did."

" _It took you time?_ How the fuck do you think it was for me?"

"Don't get angry, Kina. I didn't think how it was for you. I hated what we became. We were wild, out of control. It wasn't how I wanted to be. I needed to get away from you, Billy, the gang, the Hoppings, the whole lot of it. So I made a clean break when you went to prison."

"Worked out alright for you, yeah?"

"I'm sorry I abandoned you. It was a mess. I was a mess. I watched Billy destroy you and did nothing. You carried his baby and he beat the shit out of you until it was gone."

Tears popped from my eyes. I wiped them away.

"I'm glad."

"Don't say that, Kina. You can't mean that."

"Can you imagine the world with another Billy in it?"

She listened, saying nothing. She was always the listener and damn good at it.

"I don't want to talk about the past. My focus is on Olivia right now. I need to get her off remand."

"You're not going to do anything stupid are you?"

"No," I said. "But I am looking into Simon's murder."

"Are you serious?"

"Why not?"

"You're investigating a murder?"

"Cops ain't gonna do shit, you get me? They got the killer. _Yeah, right_."

I told her about Macklin.

"You should report her."

"Why?"

"Because she shouldn't be allowed to say that to you."

"I'm an ex-con, Jade. She can say what she wants."

"It doesn't matter who you are or who she it. That's intolerable. She actually said that?"

"Word for word."

"I can help you, if you like, report the incident I mean."

"I don't need cops kicking my door down in the middle of the night and planting shit on me because I complained. Just let it go."

"But I..."

"Let it go."

I got up, lit a fresh cigarette, paced. "You know the worse part of today?"

Jade sipped her brandy. "Worse than a gun to your head?"

"Scarface was Billy all over. I would have been hanging onto him, stoned, laughing, praising him. I was an idiot."

"Are you going to spend the rest of your life hating yourself?"

"Yeah."

She got up, placed her hand on my arm. "Do you want to talk?"

"Are you doing your social worker routine with me?" It came out harsher than I'd wanted it to.

"I can go if you like."

"Is there someone waiting up for you?" I couldn't stop biting at her.

"Yes."

"Right."

Silence hung between us. My patience was all but gone. "I'm surprised he didn't drive you over. I heard you got married."

"Married? Do you mean Roland Patterson? Oh, my God, that was years ago. How did you hear about that?"

"Remember Lisa Clark? She used to work at the arcade opposite Boxes. She did eight months in Holloway, aggravated assault. We were on the same wing. She told me she got an invite to your engagement party - prison got in the way of her turning up."

"I never married Roland. We broke up shortly after the engagement."

"Why?"

"Sometimes you have to travel a road to realise you took a wrong turn."

I grimaced. "What shit is that?" Jade laughed. "I should go. I'm glad you're OK. Can we arrange to meet again and this time you agree to turn up?"

"You can stay," I said. "If you want."

"I have work in the morning and you only have one bed."

"I know."

I looked at her. She looked back at me.

"I'm with someone. _She's_ very special to me. I was with Roland for three years and all I did was sleep with other women. I convinced myself I wasn't gay – I just enjoyed sex with women. Stephanie gave me the courage to be who I really am."

I nodded. "Lucky her."

"I really am sorry I turned my back on you, Kina."

"It's hard for friends and family." I stabbed out the cigarette. "I don't blame you. I didn't expect nothing from no one."

She grabbed me, not letting me turn away. "How hard would it have been for me to drive and see you? Or spend five minutes less on my phone to write a letter? Don't let me off that easy. I fight the fight for everyone. I never fought it for my best friend."

"I'd spent months pushing you away."

"That was Billy talking. It was always Billy talking in the end."

I brushed my hand over hers. "What happened to the girl that used to pinch cans with me from Presto?"

"She grew up." Jade smiled. "I told you we should have run away together."

"I couldn't," I said. "I was in love."

"Were you?"

"No, I just did what you do in life. Find a guy, do what he says, carry his baby until..."

"Don't keep punishing yourself, Kina."

"Will you drive me somewhere?" I asked.

"Now? What are you up to?"

"It won't take long. But I need a car and someone I can trust."

"Kina, I don't want any trouble."

"No trouble. I promise."

* * *

Rain began to fall. The wipers whipped back and forth. Tyres spun and splashed through rapidly forming puddles.

"What are we doing here?" she said.

We could've been in Marseille or Belgrade. Estates like the Hoppings were the same the world over; crumbling, disfigured, a damning mistake. We parked on the outskirts. The blocks were mostly in darkness. The dealers and hookers had retreated off the green into the hallways. A swing twisted in the wind.

"I haven't been back since the day they arrested me. The cops marched me along that landing up there, handcuffed and covered in blood." I pointed. "I didn't scream. I didn't try to escape. It was finally over."

"Coming back here is the worse thing you can do."

Rain hammered the car roof.

"I couldn't come here by myself," I said. I gave her a sideways glance. "I needed you with me."

A watery gloom hung over the towers and the walkways, the underpasses, landings, open squares and sprawling lawns. Memories rushed at me, so fierce I almost lost my breath. But not all of them were painful.

"Remember the summer parties?" I said, quietly. "All night on the rooftop, music and dancing until the cops came. We used to think it was the best place in the world during the summer."

"Sometimes it was," said Jade, softly. "Not now."

"Does your Mum still live here?" I asked.

"No. She died four years ago."

"I'm sorry. I really liked her."

Jade gripped the wheel, nodded. "I'm glad I helped you but I had to face this place years ago. Why do you think I became a social worker? I wanted to make a difference to our community. I care about the Hoppings. I know it sounds crazy but this was my home for years. It wasn't all bad living here." I kept silent, kept listening. "There are families up there who work desperately hard just to provide the basics. They don't have holidays or big TVs. They have unreliable zero hour contracts, multiple jobs, low wages. It's never enough, no matter how hard they try. And then they have to fight the stigma that comes with living here. They're demonised, relegated to second-class citizens. People watch all that shit on TV about benefit families and they lump everyone in the same boat." She shook her head. "Not everyone is a hoodie or selling drugs. There are broken and damaged lives up there and innocent children who will experience a miserable Christmas with no presents whilst I'm tucking into a three-bird roast and a bottle of Prosecco."

"That isn't your fault."

"Maybe it's not all my fault but I played a part in this place becoming a hellhole for ordinary people. You as well."

The dashboard clock rolled onto 3am. Jade was just getting started.

"It's tough," she said, holding back tears. "I try to help people at the bottom, give them hope and answers when often there really isn't any. I've got kids skipping school to sell drugs and strangers raping children whilst the mother sits in the next room, shooting up, willing to sacrifice everything to feed that habit. There are brothels up there and flats where they produce online porn and manufacture fake goods. It goes round and round and it doesn't get any better or any easier."

She took a deep breath.

"His real name is Dominic Johnson. They call him Scarface. He's a modern-day plague, Kina. He controls all of this and more, pulling the strings. _HE-7_ are organised, right down to the last detail, with no connection to Johnson or his suppliers. It's the addicts and kids and hookers who get arrested. I work cases here, Kina. You don't want to know about the shit I deal with. Stay away from the Hoppings and stay away from men like Dominic Johnson or you're going to get sucked back in."

"Do you think I'm that weak?"

"No, I don't, but you're frightened and angry."

"I'm not frightened."

"You are and you're bloody angry; at yourself, at the world. And this idea of investigating a murder is crazy. What if Johnson killed Simon? How are you ever going to prove that? He isn't going to confess, is he?"

"He shot Danny Renshaw. I know he did it. Renshaw lived in Pelham Grove, right next to where Simon was stabbed."

"I'm trying to help you. This is why I drove over in the middle of the night. I know how self-destructive you can be."

Stunned, I said, "You've never had faith in me."

"I have more faith in you than you'll ever know. You need faith in yourself, Kina."

She twisted the ignition. Headlights flooded the rain-streaked dark.

"Negative emotions make you vulnerable to the drugs. I don't want to lose you to that habit. Not a second time." She drove away from the estate. "You don't want to owe a man like Dominic Johnson. I work with vulnerable adults in this area. The stories I could tell you..."

She left the sentence hanging as she drove away.

TWENTY

A weak sun tore at leaden clouds.

I stepped off the bus, doors hissing behind me. I was tired and cold and a hangover was kicking around. I'd finished off the brandy once Jade left, a good idea at the time, not so clever now.

Jade and Abi were in my head, fighting for attention, but the hangover was beating them hands down. I felt like shit as I walked and it wasn't only the brandy causing that feeling. Jade was the oldest friend I had, a part of me had never stopped loving her. But she'd built a new life, with another woman, not me. I was the past, an old stain on a table. She'd stuck a vase over me, forgotten. She thought I was scared – she was wrong.

But I was angry and I was so very tired of being angry. I wanted back the time that had been taken. _All those years for a piece of shit like Billy. Only that was a stupid wish that would never be granted._ I had to get back to work.

I came into a street of old terraced houses and newly-built flats. It was noisy. The school run was underway and parents were bundling children out the front door and into backseats.

Melanie French, Simon's ex-girlfriend, lived in one of the new flats built over a row of parking bays. Her car was still there. That was a good sign. I buzzed her flat, waited, looked around. It was a narrow street. The council had converted it into one-way. Back in the day, I guessed, there would've only been a handful of cars parked along here. Now there was at least one car per household, often more, and with the jam of vehicles on both sides there was only enough room for one car at a time.

I buzzed a second time. Still no answer. I stepped back, looked up. Tinsel hung in the windows and there were stick-on transfers of snowmen stuck to the glass.

Happy Christmas, Trevor, daddy's dead.

Not everyone was taking the car. There were plenty of parents on foot. Melanie had walked him. I pushed off, quickening up, trying to pick her out. I scanned both sides of the road but no one resembled her. I took a right at the end of the street, following the crowd. There was a babble of tiny voices round me, all discussing a forthcoming school production, some of the kids singing hymns I knew. It warmed me, for a few moments, something special about kids this age, just children, not even boys and girls, only children.

The primary school was sleek and modern, no history. The playground was filled with neatly-turned out children in claret-coloured uniform. Parents lined the railings, waving and smiling as kids chased and played. There were more parents hanging at the gates in small groups, catching up. A steady stream of cars unloaded more kids; a shout of _have a nice day,_ a slam of the back door and then the car would zip away.

"Jesus," I muttered, thinking it impossible to spot Melanie.

I saw her a second later. _That was easy._ Her hair had thrown me. I was looking for a brunette but she'd dyed it blonde. It was long and straight, fixed in a ponytail, dark roots showing. She was kitted out in green Lycra bottoms and a black jacket. Toned, not an ounce of fat on her on enviable figure, she was taller than she'd looked in the photographs with Simon. A satchel was carried over one shoulder and she held onto a bike with one hand

"Melanie?"

A frown creased her narrow and plain face as she tried to figure out where she might know me from.

"I'm Kina McKevie," I said.

"Olivia's sister?"

"Yeah."

She glanced back at Trevor. I looked, too. He was wheeling round the playground, arms outstretched, a cute five-year-old with crazy hair and a big smile. _Oh, shit, she hasn't told him._

"You're the one who was in prison?"

"That's right."

The bell rang. Trevor waved. "Bye, mummy."

"Bye, sweetheart," she called back.

He disappeared into a clutch of children as they scurried toward the main building, forming lines.

"I don't want any trouble," she said.

"I'm not here to hassle you. I just want to help my sister. Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"Help her?"

"She didn't kill Simon. The cops have got this wrong."

She checked her watch. Her wrist was slim. "I have work." She faced me. "Do you mind if we walk and talk?"

I smiled. "I don't mind."

Parents were dispersing. A strange hush descended on the playground. She didn't say anything at first. I'd been on the end of questioning from the cops plenty of times and hated every moment of it. I didn't want to intimidate her but there was one big question that needed answering. _Was she sleeping with him or fucking him?_

Ask that question to a man and he'll wonder if he's on a promise. A woman knows the difference in that question. Abi was sleeping with me. I was fucking her, guiltily, I had to admit. She probably knew that, or suspected it, I reckon. But I couldn't just blunder in with that type of question to Melanie French. I needed to smooth out edges, take down barriers, find a way through, just like how the cops do.

"Do you always cycle to work?"

She gestured at the traffic. "It's too congested to get anywhere. I only drive at the weekends when I take Trevor shopping or visiting."

"How is he?"

She bit her lip. "I haven't told him." That I already knew. "I'm terrified one of his friends will say something. Simon saw him every Saturday and it's getting difficult making excuses."

"I'm sorry."

She gazed at me. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I was ten when my dad was murdered. I don't envy you that chat."

I thrust my cold hands into my pockets. My headache was beginning to ease. We strolled into a park, bare trees and empty lawns.

"Where do you work?"

"I'm an administrator at a freight-forwarding company," she said. "Three hours a day, five days a week. I work from home in the afternoon. I design and sell postcards. Combined I can just manage to provide for Trevor although we could never afford a holiday."

She stopped, loosened the straps on her satchel and took out a leather folder. She flipped it open, revealing pages of cartoon-style postcards behind plastic sleeves. She pointed at one of a man in a leather jacket, collar turned up. His head was split open, cartoon blood popping out. There was a caption: _My head hurts - what was I drinking last night?_

"They're caricature cards," she explained. I gave her a blank look. "That's James Dean. _Rebel without a cause._ "

"Right," I said, with little conviction.

"He died in a car accident in 1955. He was an icon of the fifties. I take well-known actors, singers, presenters, anyone really, exaggerate them and add a witty comment. I sell online and have stock in plenty of the local shops. One day I'd like to rent a unit of my own. But money is tight." She rolled her eyes. "Trevor is growing all the time. Simon helps – I mean, Simon helped, but it's hard to justify investment when your son needs new trainers."

We walked on. A few drunks were clustered round a bandstand, already hitting the cans.

"They're a disgrace," said Melanie, beckoning with her head. "Police move them on but they keep coming back. Last month one of them took a piss up against that tree." She pointed. "Exposing himself with children around. We got together at the school, the parents, I mean, and wrote letters to the council. Guess what they've done to solve the problem?"

I lit a cigarette. "Put up a sign?"

She laughed, short and bitter. "Yes, that's exactly what they did. No drinking."

I blew out smoke with a wry smile. She watched it coil into the wind. "Do you have a spare?"

"Sure." I took out my box, shook one free. "I didn't have you down as a smoker."

"I gave up when I fell pregnant with Trevor." She out let the tiniest of puffs. "I've been tempted a lot since Simon was..."

We left the drunks behind. A red-faced mother with two small children in hastily-arranged uniform came jogging past, heading in the direction of the school.

"Morning Mel," she panted.

"Hiya," replied Melanie.

I waited until the woman and her kids had passed.

"How are you doing without him?"

"I'm a working mother – there isn't time to mourn or feel sorry for myself."

"I get that."

"You're not like Olivia," she said, suddenly, dragging hard on her cigarette. "Olivia is very... light, frothy, and perfect for Simon. I mean, she was perfect for him."

"What am I then?"

She shrugged. "Just not like her, that's all."

"You've met Olivia then?"

"I needed to know the kind of woman who'd be round my son. Trevor is the most important person in my life."

We came out of the park. Across the street was a Mosque, tan-coloured brickwork, small towers at the front of a domed roof.

She ground out her cigarette, picked up the spent dog end, found a bin.

"What do you think of Olivia now?" I asked.

She shuffled on the spot. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Do you think she killed him?"

"That's what the police believe."

"She couldn't hurt anyone. Not like that."

"Did she think that about you before you killed a man?"

I didn't blink. "Olivia knew I'd eventually end up hurting someone. I wasn't a nice person back then."

She studied me for a few seconds. "I have to go. I can't be late for work."

"The cops have this wrong, Melanie. Simon's killer is still out there. Do this for Trevor."

"Do what? What can I do?"

"You can tell me about you and Simon."

They shared a bond that no relationship break-up could ever shatter. They were parents. Whatever they did, wherever they went, it couldn't weaken the mark they'd left in this world. They would always be tied together, unbroken in some way.

"We met in school. He was heavily into music. I was into art." A fond smile lit up her plain face. "We were two souls of creativity, pushed together. We were friends in school. We dated in college. But then you get older and things change. He was always my best friend, even after we split. A best friend isn't easy to find."

Jade swept Abi and the hangover under the bed. Pain spiked my chest. "Yeah, I get that."

"I don't know if your sister killed him. All I know is he's gone and nothing can get him back. Trevor won't remember him when he's older. Simon will be a photo on the wall, a grave we visit on Sunday."

She tightened her grip on the bike.

"He was a brilliant man. He really was. Did you know he was working on his own album? I was going to design the cover for him. He'd given me a vibe he wanted and was going to let me work on it from scratch."

"Was?"

"Simon lost heart in the project. He went downhill when he didn't win the award. I never knew how much that meant to him. I chatted to him before the event and he was really casual about it. But after that night his confidence drained. Something changed in him. It was like switching off a light. I don't know. I can't explain it. He was never really the same."

"Were you at the ACS award evening?"

There was no hesitation in her. "Yes. Olivia had the flu. I went instead of her."

"She didn't know that."

"Well, that's nothing to do with me."

"Did you spend time with him that evening?"

"What are you asking me?"

I took out my phone, showed her the photograph of the two of them at bar, sharing drinks, her hand on his arm.

"Were you back on?"

There was pain in her eyes. "That was a good night, despite Simon not winning."

"Such a good night he never went home."

"I can't help you."

"He told Olivia he stayed with a friend. Was that you?"

She climbed onto her bike, put on her helmet. "Ask your sister about their problems. Not me."

I jammed my foot against her front wheel. "Did you switch the light back on in him that night?"

"No."

"Simon got a call the night he was killed. Did you call him?"

"What? No. I'd only just seen him at the weekend when he brought Trevor back. I had no reason to call him."

"Did you ask to meet him that night?"

"I never called him."

"Were you waiting for him at Pelham Grove? Is that why he didn't take the car?"

"Please, take your foot away. I need to go."

"Did he realise how much he still loved you that night? All those creative juices flowing..."

"We weren't sleeping together. That was in the past."

Sleeping, not fucking.

"You've dyed your hair since then. He liked his women blonde."

Her voice went flat. "I left the award evening at 10pm. I took a taxi home. Simon was still there when I left. If you don't believe me ask Dylan Tucker. He was there that night and he wouldn't lie."

"Where can I find him?"

"He owns a record shop in Forest Gate. Look, I've given you enough of my time. I don't want to see you again."

She rolled the bike backward, determined to go round me. "One more question," I said.

"I _have_ to go."

I held up the phone again. "You said Simon changed after missing out on the ACS award. Was this photo taken before or after he knew the result?"

She hesitated. "After."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

I watched her cycle away, blonde ponytail swishing back and forth. Her hair colour wasn't lost on me. I wondered what her alibi was for the night Simon got stabbed. I had to speak to Olivia's solicitor to see if the cops had checked her out.

Losing out on the ACS award had nothing to do with Simon's mood swings and the arguments he was having with Olivia. He would've told her about it and it wouldn't have carried on this long. No, something or someone had gotten into his head and I was betting it was Melanie French. Maybe he'd got dirty with her that night and then spent the next five or six months wishing he could turn back the clock. Dude probably regretted getting Olivia to move in with him.

But I still didn't have the identity of the older blonde Olivia had found on his phone. _How many did he have tucked away?_

I needed to get hold of Dylan Tucker. Guys like to share that kind of shit and I was going to persuade Dylan to share plenty with me.

My phone buzzed.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, Kina, those little bastards."

It was Mr Bhola. He'd never called me before. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I don't know why they keep picking on me." He sounded terribly upset. "It's such a mess."

"Is that sirens?"

"Oh, yes, it is the police coming... and an ambulance."

PART THREE

TWENTY ONE

Mr Bhola was in the ambulance by the time I got back to the off-license.

He was covered in blood, his shirt was torn and there were cuts on his face. He was being patched up by a medic.

"Look at what they have done to my shop." He shook with rage. " _Look at what they have done._ "

I had nothing but sympathy for him. He worked hard, provided for his family, paid his bills; he didn't even care about his injuries - it was all about his livelihood and his ability to provide for his loved ones.

There was broken glass all over the pavement. The windows had been put through. The shop had been trashed.

"Who did it?" I asked.

"Little bastards should be at school. Where are the parents?" He shouted at the medic. "That is who I blame. It is down to the parents."

"Please calm down, sir," said the medic.

There was sudden wailing. It was Mr Bhola's wife. She brushed past me and went to her husband, throwing her arms round him, clearly distressed. She was in her fifties, black-haired and traditionally-dressed. I'd seen her in the shop a few times but she'd never spoken to me personally. I'd never heard her speak English but she'd been in this country longer than I had so I was certain she could.

A tall man followed her, clearly their son. I'd seen him around once or twice. He wore a grey suit and a lime-coloured shirt, no tie. His shoes were expensive, shiny. His attention was on his parents. Mrs Bhola had arthritic knees and her son helped her onboard the ambulance. There was a rapid conversation between the three of them. It was all in Gujarati - I didn't have a clue what was being said. It was a tough language to hook into.

It was a family thing going on so I left them to it. People were swarming round the shop and loitering in the road.

A brown-haired white guy in joggers was recording on his phone. He looked about twenty, hair unkempt, gut straining against his England football shirt. I never got why people did this. A cop in uniform told him to clear off but the young fella ignored him, kept filming. I wanted to clock him one in the head. A second police car arrived. Two more officers climbed out and sorted him out.

I pushed through the onlookers. A woman in uniform got in my way.

"Stand clear, I won't tell you again."

She had a spiky voice. I didn't want to point out she hadn't told me anything before.

"I live in the flat upstairs."

She wasn't impressed. "You need to stay back. This is a crime scene."

"Like you lot care," shouted a voice from the crowd. "You do fuck all about the crime round here."

"Calm down and go home," shouted another officer.

The street door into the flat looked untouched. Only the shop appeared to have been trashed.

The ambulance gunned into life, pulled away from the kerb, the driver slamming his horn to clear the road.

"Miss McKevie?"

It was Mr Bhola's son. He offered his hand. "I'm Awaz. Thank you for coming. My father has a high opinion of you."

His grip was light and warm. He stood beside me, surveying the scene and saying nothing for the moment.

"I wish he would sell," he said, suddenly.

I jerked my head from him. "Why?"

"Because this kind of thing wouldn't happen. This used to be a nice area to live."

"Your father won't give in to them. Good for him."

A woman in a suit stepped out of the off-license, glass crunching beneath her shoes. It was DS Corrigan.

"For fuck's sake," I muttered.

"What's the matter?" asked Awaz.

"Nothing," I said. I turned from Corrigan's gaze. "Listen, let me help you clean this mess up."

"Thank you, that is very kind. I will phone a handyman I know."

The crowd were dispersing. All the action was over. I marched past the uniforms and went into the shop. It was a mess with broken bottles, lager cans, toys, gifts and decorations scattered over the carpet. It was going to be a big clean up. I took off my jacket, draped it over the till. I knew Corrigan had eyes on me. She could wait. I went into the storeroom at the back and collected a broom, pan and hand brush.

A police car nosed away from the kerb. Awaz Bhola was pacing outside, talking into his mobile. I started out front; better to get that pavement clear. The glass clinked noisily as I swept and a cold wind whipped at my hair. I replayed the conversation I'd had with Melanie French, more and more convinced she'd slept with Simon after the award evening. I still wondered what her alibi had been for the night of his murder.

A few local men appeared, one with a broom, the other with a brush and cardboard box.

"Poor sod," said one of them. He was white and stocky with tattooed forearms. He began clearing the remaining fragments of glass from the door and windows.

Awaz snapped off his mobile. "I have a man coming to board up the shop. It will have to do until I can arrange for a glazier." He paused. "Thank you, all of you, for your help."

The hackles on my neck rose. I was still getting scrutinised by Corrigan.

"Kina?" she called.

I straightened my back, didn't turn round.

"Kina?"

Her voice was insistent this time. The two men stopped sweeping, watched me. They knew where I'd been for the past eleven years.

"What?" I said. I leaned against my broom. "You here to pin this one on me?"

"It was those little hoodie bastards that did this," said one of the men. He was also white, thin and awkward-looking. "Why don't you go hassle them? This girl wasn't even here."

"Do you want to make a statement?" asked Corrigan.

The man ducked his head. "I didn't see nothing. Just don't take a genius to work out who did it."

Corrigan pointed at a dark blue car. "A word, Kina, now."

I followed, swearing with each step I took. The upholstery was spotless. There was the smell of strawberries. She glided into her seat, turned to face me, one hand on the wheel.

"I understand you want to help your sister, Kina. But an unofficial investigation is not the way to go about it."

I wanted to bounce her head off the dashboard and ask her if that was the way to go about it.

"What happened here?"

I folded my arms, said nothing.

"Was this an attack on Mr Bhola or a message for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know about the assault in the takeaway."

"I don't know nothing about nothing."

"Do you want to press charges? We can pick up Johnson right now."

"Nothing about nothing, you get me?"

She sighed, clearly disappointed.

"I credited you with more intelligence than that, Kina."

"Then you got it fucking wrong, cop. You told me you wanted to help me. What help have you been?" I threw up my arms. "My sister is banged up on remand for a murder she didn't fucking do based on a weak few bits of evidence."

"It isn't my case. It belongs to DCI Bailey."

"Right, Bailey and his racist bitch Macklin."

Grey clouds blocked out the sun. Spots of rain landed on the windscreen.

"Do you want to make a complaint about DS Macklin?"

"No."

"You wouldn't be the first member of the public she's insulted."

"I'm no member of the public in her eyes or yours. I'm an ex-con, scum. You know it. I know it."

"Why are you so angry, Kina?"

"Because you people are so fucking blind and lazy. Did you even look at Melanie French as a suspect?"

Corrigan fell silent.

"Yeah, as I thought."

"You know I can't discuss the case with you. Besides, I'm not even working it."

"Right, right, you're not working it." I nodded toward the off-license. "Isn't this a bit low-market for you?"

"I don't think so."

"You mean my name came up when it came through, right?"

She smiled. "Something like that."

I gripped my thighs, squeezed hard. Anger continued to surge through my veins. I needed out of the car.

"Are we done?"

"Yes."

I reached for the door handle.

"Keep digging," she said.

"What?"

"I don't think your sister is guilty. I interviewed her. She doesn't fit the profile. I'm astonished the CPS agreed to prosecute. The evidence isn't strong."

I frowned. "Do you know something?"

Giant raindrops smacked against the car. The sky darkened. It wasn't even noon. It could've been early evening.

"I know I wouldn't have sought prosecution on the evidence. Bailey is a respected and experienced officer but I think he's wrong with this one."

"You just told me to keep away from the case."

"Officially, yes, but I think you can reach people we can't. You know these streets, Kina."

I stared through the watery gloom. The men helping clear up at the shop suddenly dashed past, drenched through.

"I don't," I said. "Not anymore."

"Do you know who attacked Mr Bhola?"

I shrugged. "I don't know nothing about nothing, detective."

* * *

I carried the last of the boxes and sacks into the backyard and stood under the porch with a freshly-lit cigarette, thinking.

The air was cold, rain swept, the sky brooding.

My gut told me it hadn't been Acne-Boy and his youthful cronies. Mr Bhola had driven them off plenty of times. A bit of graffiti and a few fireworks was their limit. There was a lot of damage inside. Even Corrigan had suggested it was a message for me.

Convinced that _HE-7_ was behind the attack, I flicked away my cigarette, hustled back inside. Awaz was on his mobile once more. The handyman was banging away as he fixed wooden panels across the door and window.

Grabbing my jacket from the till, I was about to leave when Awaz signalled for me to stay. He kept chatting. I pulled on my jacket, hung around, impatient. He mouthed a silent apology as he listened to whoever was talking to him. Awaz wasn't getting a word in – I guessed it was his father at the other end.

Finally, he lowered the mobile from his ear, checked the screen and then slipped it into his jacket pocket.

"My father wants to thank you for helping. He is very appreciative. I am as well. It was kind of you to help."

I shrugged, embarrassed. "I wasn't the only one."

"I will thank Gerry and Mark when I leave here. I shall be going soon." He glanced at his watch. "This shouldn't take much longer. Please say hello to Douglas. I hope he is keeping well. And your mother, of course. I hope she is well."

I nodded. "I will."

TWENTY TWO

The sign above the shop read: DT RECORDS.

It was bright and modern inside with carpet on the floor and black-painted racks of vinyl lining the exposed brick walls. There were posters and displays of new releases or popular re-releases and glass cabinets filled with music memorabilia.

A large tree twinkled in one corner with a picture-disc of Tina Turner on top; vinyl-shaped Christmas gifts below.

Music pumped from the speakers, a modern urban track with plenty of samples and angry lyrics.

A young woman was organising a rack of singles. She smiled at me. She was in her late teens or very early twenties with gorgeous braided hair. Her skin was light brown, flawless beneath the overhead tube lights. She had an angular face, a pointed chin and glistening hazel eyes.

"Hi," she said.

She wore a black T-shirt with the word _RECLAIM_ printed across it, purple jeans and yellow trainers with sparkly laces. A shiny piece of rose-coloured quartz hung from a gold chain round her neck, nestling between small breasts.

"Dylan about?" I asked.

"Sure."

She called out back. "Dylan, customer for you." She smiled again. "He won't be a minute."

"Thanks."

"What are you into?"

I glanced at her. "Sorry?"

She gestured with her head at the stacks of vinyl.

"What music are you into?"

"I don't know... something with a beat."

It was more of a question than an answer and a pretty lame one. She couldn't help but smirk, playfully.

"I don't know why I said that." I smiled. "I was daydreaming about my dad. He loved vinyl, would never play CDs."

"What did he listen to?"

"Boney M was his big love. He must have played _Nightflight to Venus_ a million times."

She stepped away from the rack she was working at. "But what do you like?"

"Drum and bass," I said. "Jungle, that kind of thing."

She nodded. "Old school, cool." Then she looked past me, agitated. "Dylan, don't keep the lady waiting."

Lady?

"That'll get him moving," she said. "The nineties was a great decade for drum and bass."

It was my turn to smirk. "Like you were around in the nineties."

She gave me an exaggerated laugh. "I was born in '96." Her hands went into her back pockets. She rocked on her heels.

"I like your necklace," I said.

"Its rose quartz," she replied, glancing down at it. "It helps ease anxiety."

"Yeah, I know."

She smiled at me. She had a small mouth with cute lips and shiny teeth, a narrow waist with a gentle curve to her hips. I couldn't help but check her out. She was most likely straight but then half the women at _Heaven 101_ were straight; straight women who just happened to indulge in sex with gay women. It was uncomplicated for them; good company and sex and then back to _regular_ life with no big admissions.

And gay women were just as stoked by it; snagging a straight woman was seen, by some, as a conquest. But see I hated all that shit – tags, abbreviations - usually made up by those with empty lives who needed to be heard and loved shoving people into boxes.

I was me, gay or bi or whatever, just getting what I wanted from whoever wanted to get into it. This girl was hot – far too young for me, no doubt straight – but still hot so I checked her out, investigation or not.

"Are they good?" I said, nodding at her T shirt. "Reclaim?"

She laughed, covering her mouth this time with one hand.

"I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. A lot of customers make that mistake. Reclaim isn't a band - _it's a statement_." Her tone grew serious. "We're a movement striving to reclaim Forest Gate from the gangsters with knives and guns."

I nodded. "I get that."

She appreciated my sincerity, I could tell. "I'm Tayla," she said.

"Kina."

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Definitely not the nineties."

She chuckled, flashing her shiny teeth.

"Are you looking for me?" said a voice behind us.

He was leaning on the counter, watching us interact. I wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there. A smile lingered on his round face. He was black, clean-shaven, hair cropped, no style, just a basic crew-cut.

"What can I do for you?"

He was in his late twenties; he'd been at school with Simon but had skipped out on college, preferring to work than enter further education. I had no idea how he would react to me.

"You must be Kina McKevie," he said, suddenly. The smile remained. "I got a call from Mel. She told me to expect you." He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was guitar-shaped with a picture of Jimi Hendrix. "Thought you'd be here hours ago. I missed my lunch waiting for you."

He didn't seem pissed. "Just want a few minutes of your time," I said, warmly. "Is that OK?"

"Sure, but I need feeding." My stomach rumbled at his words. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. "And I don't want a hard time from you." He was grinning but half-serious. "Not like what you gave Mel."

I didn't reply. He grabbed a leather jacket off a peg, shrugged it on.

"Bye," said Tayla, head down, mobile in hand.

The area was rundown, forgotten by the men and women who wore suits. Boarded up flats and houses, grim tower blocks and streets dogged with violence, drugs. The local shops, those still in business, were scattered, desperately hanging on. Even the effort of decorations and flashing lights wasn't improving their outward appearance. There were oversized Christmas lights strung across the high street but council penny-pinching meant they remained switched off until the very last moment, despite the late afternoon gloom.

People demanded regeneration, deserved it. Year after year paltry wage packets were raided but the cracks on the pavement remained, potholes in the roads worsened, and the wind didn't stop whistling through the bowed and rusted panels of the railway bridge – a notorious spot where the mentally-ill had chosen to throw themselves under the wheels of passing trains on a regular basis.

The sky was leaden, the air cold. I walked with hunched shoulders. Dylan strutted beside me.

We passed a shop that specialised in retro consoles and games. The window was brimming with products draped in tinsel. A flashing Santa was crying _ho! ho! ho!_ as he bounced up and down on an old Mega Drive.

"We used to be in there all the time," said Dylan. "Simon and me. Up all night on the Nintendo. Back in the day."

He went quiet for a moment, lost in memories. There was something very likeable about him; I wanted to put my arm round him, offer him comfort, but I didn't do that kind of shit and, besides, he could've easily been responsible for sticking that knife in his best friend and getting Olivia dumped inside.

"This alright for you?" He jabbed a thumb toward a Caribbean restaurant.

The windows were curtained and grubby. A menu was taped to the glass. It was more than alright.

"Yeah," I said, and smiled.

We went inside. Dylan reeled off his order from memory; beef with kidney beans and rice. My stomach growled at the smells from the kitchen. I asked for jerk chicken and coconut bread. We both ordered homemade ginger beer with ice.

The seating area was through a beaded curtain. It was empty. Soft reggae music played. A large Jamaican flag hung on the back wall.

"Mel left at 10pm that night," he said, as our drinks arrived. "Simon didn't leave with her."

I hadn't asked him anything and instead of confirming his alibi for the night his friend was killed he was chatting about the award evening and backing up Melanie French.

I sipped my ginger beer. It tasted fine. "Did you leave with her?" I asked.

He was still smiling, fronting it out. "What do you mean?"

"Melanie is a better liar than you, Dylan. You tapped it, right?"

He leaned back in his chair, shook his head. "Man, Mel said you were rough on her. What's your problem, girl?"

I put down my glass. "I'm no fucking girl, you get me, Dylan? My sister is stuck on remand so cut the shit."

"My best friend is dead because of her." He kissed his teeth. "I shouldn't even talk to you."

"Olivia didn't kill him."

"Yeah, so you say."

"So I know."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"Do you want to help me find out who killed your best friend or do you want them to get away with it?"

Our food arrived. He sulked, didn't touch it. I was starving. I left him to it, tucked in. The chicken was tender, beautifully smoked. The seasoning had a proper kick to it.

"This is good," I said.

I washed it down with a mouthful of ginger beer, tasting the flavours of childhood.

Dylan relented, grudgingly, and began to eat. "This is the best Caribbean food in London; the best."

"Are you happy to let the cops fuck this one up?" I said. "Years from now they'll be an inquiry and Olivia will go free and the trail will be stone cold. Ain't like that never happened before, yeah?"

A resigned look broke out across his face. He muttered under his breath, dug into his beef. "Yeah, OK, OK. Man, you're heavy, you know that? Jump up and mess with a man."

"How long has it been going on with you and Melanie?"

"The award evening was the first time. We'd been flirting for a month or so. It was going to happen, just a matter of when." He looked sad for a moment. He picked up a napkin, held onto it, folding and unfolding it. "Simon knew. He'd seen it coming. He told me he knew there would be someone for Mel, one day, and he was glad it was a guy he could trust." He let out a painful laugh. "He did say he wanted to kill me. But he was just messing. I left with Mel that night, round 10pm. We got a cab back to her flat."

"It didn't last, right?"

"No, no it didn't." He grinned. "You're pretty good at this. I've known Mel since I was eleven. We did science together at school. I'd asked her out a hundred times but she would always turn me down. And when we finally got together, nothing worked. You can't make two people fit. They do or they don't."

I nodded, reflecting on his words.

"We only spent that night together. I still see her when I take Trevor out if she needs a few hours to herself. But that's it. There'll never be more than friendship between us."

"How did it affect Simon?"

He lifted his glass. "Truth? He wasn't bothered. She was the mother of his boy and that's all she was to him. He loved your sister. He was crazy about her."

My plate was empty. I drained my glass. "Then what was bugging him for the past six months?"

Dylan shrugged. "I don't know."

"He never went home that night. He stayed with a friend."

"OK."

"Which friend?"

He chewed on his beef. "He crashed at a hotel. That's what he told me the next morning. I was going to cover for him but he said he didn't want me to lie. He told Olivia he was at a friend's place."

"What hotel did he stay at?"

He frowned. "I don't know. A local one, I guess."

"Was he alone?"

"I wasn't there."

"I know. You were nailing his ex. Was Simon alone?"

He didn't answer.

"Olivia found pictures on his phone of an older woman with blonde hair; daytrips, meals out, that kind of thing."

"You got a picture of her?"

"No, his phone went missing the night he was killed."

"I don't know then. I don't know about any old woman."

"Simon carried the knife that killed him. That means he was scared or out to hurt someone. Which do you reckon?"

"He wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Then what had him scared?"

"Man, I wish I knew. But I don't. The cops asked me all this shit. I told them all I know."

"You told them about you and Mel?"

He grinned. "I might have left that bit out."

"The night Simon was murdered he got a call from Floyd Wickman. Do you know what that was about?"

He ran a hand over his head. "No."

"Do you know this Wickman dude?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Is he really the same guy from the seventies?"

Dylan chuckled. "Yeah, it's him."

"Where can I find him? I need to talk to him."

"Cops would have done that already."

"Then he'll know what to say to me."

I took out my notebook. He gave me the address. A track came on I knew. My head nodded as I wrote.

"You done?" asked Dylan.

"Why did he go out that night?"

He shrugged.

"What was getting at him, Dylan? He must have told you. Six months is a long time to carry something around."

His chair scraped back. "I don't know. He didn't tell me, OK? He should've trusted me."

"With what?"

"Whatever the fuck was eating at him. I knew something was but he'd pretend it was all cool."

"What about _HE-7?_ He was killed in their territory. Were they at him?"

"Territory?" He snorted. "Simon never mixed with gangs. That life is for fools. I'm done with this." He shrugged on his jacket, half-raised the zip. "Listen, Mel didn't kill Simon. I know she's all blonde and I heard the killer is a woman with blonde hair but she was home with Trevor that night."

I nodded.

"Man, I don't know if your sister is innocent... but she's the only one going to trial for it."

TWENTY THREE

My mobile buzzed.

"It's me," said Abi.

I was on the crowded top deck of a bus, at the back.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Heading home."

"Are you coming into work tonight?"

"I thought you'd cut me loose."

"Maybe you should've asked. There's still a job for you if you want it."

"I need it."

"Good, don't be late."

"Abi..."

"Yes?"

"A lot of shit has happened the past few days. I need to tell you it all. Or I can tell you none of it."

"I want things two-way, you know that, Kina."

"After work then," I said.

"Sure."

She hung up. The bus laboured in Friday evening traffic. I sat thinking, chewing over Simon, Melanie and Dylan. I was no closer to the killer, unless Melanie French had left Trevor home alone, drove down to Pelham Grove, confronted Simon, got into a fight and then attacked him, and driven back, covered in blood. The pieces didn't fit.

The bastard who'd taken that knife from Simon was still out there, kicking back and laughing at how easy it had been.

I clenched the metal bar of the empty seat ahead, angry and frustrated, alone with this investigation, no help, no advice, no resources.

Simon had been attacked in Dominic Johnson's territory. Dylan wasn't convinced Simon had been mixed up in nasty shit and I hadn't uncovered any evidence of it but it was a fact that couldn't be ignored. He was on another man's turf, late at night, out for a walk with a blade on him. Then throw into the mix the incident in the takeaway with Scarface threatening me with a gun – but he hadn't mentioned Simon, only the shooting of Danny Renshaw.

My head ached.

This could have been a random mugging gone wrong – nothing to do with Simon's private life, no connection to Renshaw.

All I had was Melanie with her blonde-dyed hair and a mystery blonde on Simon's phone. _The guy liked his blondes._ So how good was the cop witness now? There were at _least_ three blondes in the picture, including Olivia.

Could she have...? No, no way, no fucking way. Following in her sister's footsteps? No, don't make it that, please, don't make it that.

Could she have killed him?

No.

All those months of them drifting apart?

No.

Glumly, I stared through the windows. My phone buzzed again. I snarled as I answered.

"Don't hang up," said Dylan.

"What do you want?"

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. The way I spoke to you was out of order."

"OK."

"Olivia made Simon really happy. I can't..." The bus went under a bridge. I lost him for a moment. "...hurt him."

"OK."

The line went silent. I could hear whispering in the background. It sounded like Tayla, urging him on.

I waited.

"I didn't want to say this earlier. I don't want you thinking any less of him."

I kept waiting.

"Are you still there?"

"Yeah."

"We all left at the same time. That night, back in August. You have to understand how Simon was feeling. He _was_ disappointed to miss out on that award. He'd worked hard for years, hour after hour, trying to break through. I mean, sure, he had that big single last year, number one download, but it was Floyd who got all the praise, man, not Simon."

"Go on."

"He was a bit down that night, you know. Like, I was going off with his girl, man. Melanie was his first girl. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"I thought he was cool with you stepping in?"

"That was talk. He wanted it to work for her, for me, but it still stung him."

"So what happened?"

"I think he needed to let go a bit, be a man, you know?"

"Why didn't he go home to Olivia?"

"Man, she had flu that night."

I kissed my teeth.

"Simon went down the road to Boxes, the club, do you know it?"

"I know it." I shook my head. "Did he hook up?"

"I don't know."

"Everyone hooks up in there."

"Look, he never said. But... listen, you need any help, Kina, you call me, OK? I'd like to help."

"Sure."

I got off at the next stop. The raw wind was dotted with spots of rain. I sheltered on the concrete steps of a council building. There were no lights showing. I lit a cigarette, a tiny spark in the shadows. I glanced back at the building. It had been the venue for the ACS award evening in August.

Hundreds of people shifted along the pavement. I retreated more and more into the unlit areas of the building.

" _Don't keep punishing yourself, Kina..._ _I know how self-destructive you can be._ "

It was easy for Jade to say. She didn't carry the burden; she didn't understand what it meant to be on the outside, not outside of prison, but outside of life. It was a dark place to exist, disconnected from a world never more connected than now.

" _You don't want to owe a man like Dominic Johnson..."_

Without realising it, I rubbed the temple where he'd stuck the gun.

Bastard!

Abi had phoned. That was a big positive. I still had work and a chance to put things right with her.

I heard a scampering behind me. A skinny-looking dog emerged and began to sniff me.

"What do you want?" I said, in a calm and friendly tone. I offered him a hand. His nose was cold.

" _Benny._ "

He came out of the shadows, the homeless man I'd seen before. He was incredibly tall, well over six feet. I was tiny next to him. So was Benny. The world zipped by, everyone and everything so damn busy. The old guy looked at the ragged cigarette end burning between my fingers.

"Do you want one?" I asked.

"Be kind of you," he said, nodding.

I stamped out the smouldering end and receded into the gloom with him. The dog settled down in his basket, one paw holding the forlorn teddy bear. I lit two cigarettes, handed one to the homeless guy. A bike, old-looking and loaded down with boxes and bags, was propped behind him in a porch.

I slid onto my haunches, back against a rough wall.

"Are you safe here?" I asked.

"Where's safe?" Ash crumbled onto his jacket.

I looked at the dog. "Does Benny keep you safe?"

"Sometimes. He likes you. I found him last Christmas. Cold and whimpering, poor little thing. I named him after my son. He moved away, a long time ago. There was a place in Wales I went to once. I don't know. I don't remember."

"Nowhere better for you than the street?"

"You mean a hostel? No, they won't let us in." He funnelled smoke through his nose. "You like dogs?"

I stroked Benny. "Dogs just love you, don't they?"

"Animals do."

"He likes his teddy bear, right?"

The homeless man smiled but didn't say anything. I stared at the dog, frowning, eyes on that worn bear. I couldn't reason why. Something was rattling in the back of my head. I didn't know how to reach it.

"We found that. Someone left it by the road. Down by the bridge. The flowers were all dead, seemed wrong to leave it there."

A shiver ran up my spine. "Do you mean the footbridge at Pelham Grove?"

"I think so. Why? Does it matter?"

Traffic rumbled. Rain began to fall. I ran a hand through my hair. _That had been left by a mourner and he'd taken it. Shit, that was where I'd seen it before. No, no I hadn't. There had been no teddy bear at the footbridge._

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Max." He dragged on his cigarette. "I was a teacher once. Do you know that? I used to teach horticulture. Big school in Canning Town. Boys, no girls. A long time ago. I don't remember why I stopped teaching. I don't remember." He was fading in and out, bits and pieces of the past landing in his head. "Do you have a cigarette, miss? Can you spare another one?"

I took out the box. Four smokes left. I pressed the packet into his lined palm, held onto it.

The teddy bear... think, Kina, think...

"Max, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can, miss. I don't mind. You don't have to put your hand up." His laugh was dry, cracked. He tried to prise the cigarette box from my grip but I refused to let him have it yet. "Was there anything with the teddy bear when you found it at the bridge?"

He scratched his beard, thoughtful. "Flowers, I think, yes, flowers, I told you that. I threw them in the bin, they were dead. I told you about the flowers, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did. Nothing else?"

"I couldn't leave him." He nodded toward Benny. "I found him at Christmas. Poor little sod, thrown out with the wrapping paper. Poor boy."

"Max, what else was with the teddy bear? Was there a card with it? Or a note? Or something?"

He scratched his wild beard, nodding and smiling. "I remember now. That boy got killed there. Terrible thing, poor sod. The flowers were all dead. I put them in the bin. Benny wanted the bear. It helps him sleep at night. They make fun of us. They piss on me, take my things." He got to his feet, giving up on the cigarettes. "They pushed me down the steps once. Over near the train station. _Little cunts._ " He stamped over to his bike, still talking. "No one notices. I used to be important. I was called _sir._ They used to call out _sir_ when I took the register." He dug into one of his bags, pulled something out. "Here."

He handed me a small card. It was damp, creased at one corner. There was a gold cross on the cover with the printed words: _In Sympathy._

I flipped it open. The mourner had scribbled a simple message: _Too young to die. RIP._

I handed Max the cigarettes. He seemed calmer, occupied with Benny. I stepped away from them, started off.

"Hey," he called out.

The cigarette box was open, four smokes and a crumpled ten pound. I didn't say anything.

"Thank you," he said.

Nodding, I pocketed the card and glanced back at the dog, his paw draped over the teddy bear. That was why it had registered the first time; it wasn't only that Max and his dog had looked so pitiful – it was that I'd seen the teddy bear before but not where they'd found it.

TWENTY FOUR

Hood raised, gloves on, baton thrust into my waistband, I hustled over toward Pelham Grove, skulking in the shadows as I walked.

It was dark, the air damp, the rain having passed through pretty quick. Groups of young men hung with nothing to do, drinking and smoking, chatting shit. People were rushing home from work. A man was out walking his dog. Traffic thundered along the main road. Most of the houses across the green were lit up with Christmas lights.

I slipped into the small car park, unseen.

No sign of Smoke or Bounce or any of their crew. No sign of police surveillance on the flat.

The lobby stank of piss. I raced up the steps. The empty bottles and upturned crate had gone and someone had swept away the cigarette ends.

I reached the landing. London was spread out before me, lights and noise. I stopped for a moment, drew breath, and then headed for the Renshaw flat. Bits of crime scene tape clung to the door frame, fluttering in the wind. The cops had removed the gate, only large hinges remained.

I'd intended to go through the window but with the gate missing I forced open the front door. I'd never been a housebreaker. I knew plenty who had, especially inside. It seemed every other con I shared a wing with had a burglary conviction. But getting in wasn't a big deal.

I closed the door behind me, took a deep breath, waited and listened. The flat was silent.

I took out a cheap pocket torch, switched it on. The beam shot out. I fanned it over a narrow hallway with a coat and scarf hanging from a wall hook. Beneath were three pairs of shoes in a row.

I took a step forward. The floor creaked.

There was sudden movement in the flat next door. I tensed, listened to footsteps followed by a burst of conversation about dinner; then a TV was switched on.

I relaxed, swung the torch into the nearest room. It was the kitchen. Empty. I edged along the hallway. There was a door on my left. I twisted the handle but the door refused to budge. I gave it a forceful shove and it opened into a poky living room. Curtains were drawn across the back window.

Renshaw had been killed in here; dried blood spatters on the wall, a large patch of dried blood on the carpet.

There were two more doors at the end of the hallway. The left hand one was wide open. In the torchlight, I saw a simple bedroom, bed unmade, a cabinet and wardrobe, a chair piled with clothes, a wall lined with boxes and bags. I crept toward the last door, twisted the handle. It had swollen in the frame, like the living room door, but worse. It scraped as I jerked it open and then flew from my grip, slamming into the adjoining wall.

"Fuck."

I waited, listened; nothing. I flashed the torch over a toilet and bath. The walls were half-tiled, half-painted. There was black mould between the tiles and a few of them were cracked. I could feel cold air from a single window, glass frosted, paint peeling. A plastic basket of toiletries sat on the sill.

Satisfied no one was lurking, I went into the bedroom and dug into the bags. It was a second-hand crime scene. The cops had painstakingly picked through every room, taking samples, fibres, skin, hair, blood, tissue; I wasn't really expecting to find much.

I hastily tipped the contents of the bags on the bed. The soft toy collection spilled out. My nose tingled with a musty smell. These things were old and unbranded. Kids today wouldn't have recognised them from any TV characters, though I reckoned they would've still played with them, the way kids that age can play.

I angled the torch across them, replaying that morning in my head; peering through his kitchen window, drawn by the noise of the radio, and spotting the soft toys on the table, scattered and unsorted.

There had been a bear that day, worn and sad looking, old, definitely old, with tan fur and a red jumper, but now it was gone, and Max and Benny had it, picked up from where Renshaw had left it on the spot Simon had been attacked.

I stepped back into the living room, pointing the beam at the bloodstains. _Why had he left the card and the bear?_

The card, I got. Renshaw might've been a local man, Stratford born and bred, old enough to remember different times, growing up on streets when there was a code, all that old school shit. He must had seen the police swoop on the footbridge, learned the horrific facts in the local newspaper or from gossip and chosen to pay his respects, as a decent local man. I had to admire that.

_But the bear?_ I didn't know why Renshaw had a soft toy collection, stuffed in bags in his room.

A pedo?

I shuddered. That possibility existed. I'd seen no evidence of a family.

I went through the flat room by room; drawers, shelves, cupboards and cabinets. No photographs, no personal gear, nothing. The police would've taken items; clothing, possibly a laptop, a mobile, but even so there was so little here.

Frowning, I leaned against the kitchen doorway, thinking. There was something _off_ with the place. More than it being the scene of a murder. Renshaw didn't live here, not permanently, there just wasn't enough, even less than what I lived with. He had another address, a better place than this, one with things he wanted and liked. This was too stark for a home. The flat was a place to conduct business.

I thought back to the surveillance photographs – what line had Renshaw been in?

There were no answers. If there had been then the cops would've taken them away.

I had to refocus - the missing teddy bear wasn't enough. I needed something more concrete to make the connection with Simon.

Suddenly, there were footsteps outside. I snapped off the torch. Shadows fell across the window. I dropped to the kitchen floor.

"Are you alright?" said a woman. She sounded old. There was a pause, an intake of breath and then a man spoke. "Fine, just a twinge."

Shoes scraped the landing as they began walking away from the window.

I switched the torch back on. The beam illuminated the fridge freezer. There were plenty of magnets but only one note, an unused shopping list. I carefully took it down, set it on the table. I took out a roll of plastic bags from my jacket pocket. I'd grabbed them on the way over. I tore off a bag, slipped the list inside. I then took out a plastic bag with the sympathy card inside and laid the two side by side.

The handwriting was a perfect match.

Pocketing the bags, I switched off the torch and headed for the door. I opened it a fraction, listened.

Young voices from the stairs! Fuck...

I peered onto the landing. No one around. The smell of fish and chips was fresh in the air. I stepped out, closed the door with a click, thrust my hands into my pockets and shuffled toward the stairs.

The voices grew louder. There were three youths scuttling down below, two black, one white, hoods and caps, big coats and loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms.

The white one was chatting, rocking on his feet as a spun a story about a girl and his brother who'd dissed him and he'd put him down. His companions were laughing, more at him, than the story. The white boy didn't seem to notice, or mind.

One of the black teenagers dropped onto the steps, an open box of lager bottles next to him. I couldn't see his face but he was puffing on a fat spliff - I could see and smell that. I clocked the second black teenager. He'd been one of the bikers who'd chased me the last time I'd been here.

Head ducked, I moved fast, right hand ready to snatch out the baton and crack a few bones.

The white boy was the first to open his mouth. "Yo, yo, girl, slow down. Come and have a drink."

He sniggered. I didn't reply. I kept coming down the steps toward the lobby, heart racing. The boy sitting on the steps reached into the beer box, grabbed a bottle and twisted off the cap.

"Yeah, get this down..." He saw under my hood. "It's that fucking bitch ..."

I snapped out the baton, whipped it to full length and hit him. The bottle smashed on the ground. He recoiled, crying out, and reached into his coat.

"Caught slipping, boy," I said.

The second black youth sprang forward, a blade coming out. I stamped into his shin, and cracked the baton across his face, swiping it in a vicious arc, busting his nose. A hand grabbed my ankle, tugged hard, and I went down onto the concrete, the wind punched from my lungs.

Pain crashed into me as I was kicked and stamped. I gasped. The three boys piled in, relentless. The baton rolled away. I struggled onto my knees and threw my strength into them. The four of us tumbled back toward the stairs, the three of them wrestling to get a decent hit on me, especially the one with the busted nose.

I snatched a bottle from the beer box, spun and hit blind, cracking it over a skull. I shoved through them, gloved hand on the bottle, throwing it, glass shattering, bending low and latching onto the baton, turning, lashing out.

The white boy was tugging a gun from his coat. I glimpsed his hand emerge, curled round a tan-coloured stock, further and further out, a revolver, fat chamber and barrel, time slowing down, horrible and without care, memories lodging in my throat, all the things I'd done, all the things I'd said, coming back for me now. The teenager with the busted nose was getting to his feet, yelling at me. His companion was down, blood spewing from his head.

I hurled into the lobby door, dropping my shoulder at the last moment. The gunshot was deafening.

Bursting into the car park, cold air rushing against me, I weaved as a second boom thundered behind me, the bullet zipping past, dangerously close.

I ran toward the parked cars. A second group of teenagers appeared, at least six of them, drawn by the gunfire. I kept running, pain all over. The gun blasted off a third round, shattering a windscreen.

Bodies moved in the dark. Voices cracked from every direction. A fist hit me in the back of the head. I swung the baton, smacked hard against bone. Something whipped against the back of my legs, possibly a belt. I cried out in pain.

There was shouting from the street and the flats above. I glimpsed the white boy, messing with the revolver, swearing angrily as the chamber refused to roll and give him another shot.

Then I saw Smoke, the fast-talking, machete-carrying thirteen year-old. He didn't waste any time. His weapon needed no ammunition. His coat opened, the blade swept out of the darkness.

He swung at me. His eyes bulged. He was going to hack me down on the spot. His crew cheered him on.

The white boy ran over, jammed revolver in hand, squeezing the trigger frantically.

The machete swung again. Grimacing with pain, nearly boxed in, I sprang onto the bonnet of a car, skated across.

A masked teenager lunged at me, swinging a bat. I dropped and kicked his ankles away.

I started to run, jumping clear of another fist, and gathered speed as I disappeared into winding alleys and streets, half of the gang behind me, quickly giving chase as the first of the sirens began to wail.

TWENTY FIVE

Midnight.

I sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Johnson's crew or the cops to rock up.

Seconds crawled by. I lifted the brandy bottle, swallowed a deep mouthful, draining it. I set the empty bottle down, next to the baton, a feeble arsenal for whoever was first through the door.

There was an orange glow from the street lamp outside, other than that I sat in darkness, silence.

Mr Bhola's stock was still piled in the hallway, unwrapped. I thought about him for a moment, no doubt discharged by now, at home with his family, encouraged to rest but ranting about the _little bastards_ who'd attacked him. He'd be worrying, too, over the looming complication of an insurance claim. He was the victim. It didn't seem fair. None of it seemed fair.

My body ached. My skin burned. I sat in a white vest top and jeans, arms showing bruises. There were more concealed on my legs, stomach and back. I'd live. I'd had worse, far worse; life on the street, Billy, prison, the scars and bruises mount up over the years. One of the worse scars I had was on my left thigh. Fresh from a tattoo shop I'd had a sharpened screwdriver plunged into me by a girl named Yvonne Desumi. It was in retaliation for an attack the week previous. Yvonne had ended up in Holloway years later, on a separate charge. The beef got settled inside. I hadn't wanted it, I was trying to stay clear of the violence, straighten out, but I could show no weakness and had to follow through on her. It was a dark time, one I wanted to forget.

I shook out a cigarette, lit up and leaned back on the steps, wisps of smoke floating toward the ceiling.

Pelham Grove would be swarming with cops; revolving blue lights reflecting in the puddles, uniforms knocking on doors and taking statements, forensic officers combing the lobby and the ground outside, taking samples of blood, footprints, fingerprints and spent bullets. Detective would be on the ground, hitting local hangouts, scooping up the _badmen_ with the guns, finding only boys not men.

Or it could be silent down there; no sirens, no cars, no tents, nothing, just scared and intimidated families living in the shadow of the gangs and the merciless violence they dish out.

The lure of the gang was irrational to outsiders but normality to estate kids growing up with little future. Born into a third world of cutbacks and closures, oppressed and suppressed, parents demonised, culture demonised, they formed to keep safe, then to terrify, inheriting vengeances they knew nothing about but ready to fight, to disfigure and to kill for, believing the empty promises, finding out too late the outcome was death or prison. I'd been there. I got it. I fucking got it.

An hour passed, no one came. I kept waiting. My phone buzzed. _Abi._ It was only going to be her.

She was pissed. "I can't keep covering you at work. What happened?"

"Not on the phone. Can we meet at _101?_ "

"I don't think so, Kina. We need to talk. You're making me look a mug for hiring you."

"You're not a mug. Look, we'll talk at the bar. Then I need to get hammered."

The line went silent. The silence told me I was being selfish.

"Abi?"

Nothing.

"Abi, please don't get upset. I'm sorry. Lock up and head over to the bar. I'll meet you there."

Nothing.

"OK?"

"OK," she said, sniffing.

I pushed onto my feet. Pain shot through my body. I grabbed my jacket. A rancid taste rolled through my stomach, into my mouth. I felt dizzy, off balance, adrenaline draining, too much brandy flowing in my blood.

Leaning forward, I steadied myself by placing a hand on the door that separated the hallway from the shop.

The door rattled in the frame.

Straightening, wiping sweat from my face, I frowned. Locked, the door was solid, unmoving.

I reached for the handle, pushed it down. The door clicked, swung open, revealing darkness.

Awaz had left it unlocked.

The alarm should be screaming but there was silence. I guessed Awaz didn't have the code. Or maybe there was something wrong with it, maybe damaged during the attack.

I stood in the open doorway, a well-stocked off-license beckoning me inside. A wry smile lit my face.

Reaching slowly, I fumbled for the light switch. The overhead tubes flickered and snapped on, buzzing loudly. I stepped inside. It was odd without Mr Bhola. I stared at the rows of bottles and cigarettes, tempted. I picked up a bottle of brandy, a bottle of white wine and forty cigarettes. But I dug into my pocket, arm wincing as I carried out simple movement, and took out a thin wedge of notes.

Leaving the money on the till, I called a cab and sat down on the carpet to wait. Back against the wall, legs stretched out, I thought about Olivia.

Time dragged. I continued to wait. I was about to get up when something caught my eye below one of the low metal shelves stacked with boxes of wine.

Frowning, I got down on my side and then rolled flat on my stomach. I thrust a hand beneath the shelf, fingers raking over the carpet.

"Come on," I whispered, impatient.

I snagged it, dragged it clear and turned it over in my hand. It was a mobile phone.

* * *

I sent Abi a text, told her to stay home.

She threw her arms round me when I got to the flat, hugged me until I groaned in pain.

I stepped in, closing the door behind me, slipping off my jacket.

She cried a lot more than I'd expected. I held her, reassured her I was OK; it was no problem, it was over, it was only a beating, I could cope, I'd been through worse - but my words didn't seem to have any effect on her.

"I want to tell you everything," I said. "You need to know exactly what I've been doing and what I've found out."

She made tea, strong and black, and a plate of toast, thick with butter. She already knew me too well. We sat at the kitchen table, drinking, eating, smoking, the bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge. I gave it all to her, leaving nothing out, letting her know the shit I was digging into.

Her cheeks were puffy, eyes red-rimmed. "Do you think one of them dropped the phone?"

"I reckon," I said.

The battery had been dead. Abi had rooted out a charger, left it on the counter in the kitchen.

It was deep into the night, wind stirring rubbish beyond her windows, a few cars zipping by, Christmas only weeks away.

"I was really angry with you when you didn't show," she said. Her hair was pulled back. She wore tartan pyjama bottoms, fluffy socks, a thick jumper. "I thought, no, that's it, I'm not putting up with this. Now... oh, look at you, Kina."

"No more tears," I said. I held her hand. "I got away and they got plenty of wounds, you get me?"

Felix, her black and white cat, lifted his head from his favourite position, stretched out in front of the oil-filled radiator. There didn't seem to be anything going down for him to worry about; he'd get his food and litter tray cleaned in the morning so he went back to sleep.

"Do you think this Dominic Johnson killed Simon?"

"His crew are all over Pelham Grove and the Hoppings. I doubt much goes on that he doesn't know about."

Felix was snoring. I cleared away the plates and mugs and fetched the wine from the fridge. Abi brought the glasses and I poured. We carried our drinks and cigarettes into the bedroom, forgetting about the mobile phone.

She climbed in under the duvet. "I just want you to hold me tonight. I don't want to play."

"I don't have the energy for anything else." It was a lie, a flat out lie. I wanted her desperately in that moment. I needed to take control, wrestle away the fear bubbling in my stomach. But she was sweet and kind and caring, so I kept her close, her body warm but shivering, smothering my needs and lusts and answering only hers.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Bringing all this shit into your life. You don't deserve it, Abi. You don't."

"I'm not a child that needs protecting. I know what goes on, Kina. I'm not that naïve."

We smoked and drank in silence, holding each other. I kissed her head.

"What will you do next?" she asked.

"Simon got a call from a guy called Floyd Wickman the night he was killed. I'm going to see him tomorrow. Maybe he can tell me where Simon was _really_ going."

"What about the man who got shot?"

My hand went beneath the duvet. A fledgling attempt. Abi grabbed my wrist. "Not tonight, Kina, please."

I drank, hid the frustration. "He left that card and bear for Simon. But I don't know what the connection between them is."

"People do that sort of thing all the time, for people they don't know. Think of all the celebrities who've died this year. Every time it's on the news you see footage of all these flowers and cards and gifts."

I curled my arm round her. "Yeah, you're right. " Not that I could name a single one of them who'd died.

TWENTY SIX

"I never phoned him that night," said Floyd Wickman. He jabbed a finger at me. "You got your facts all wrong."

"His girlfriend said you did."

"Well, she's wrong as well."

"She's my sister."

"I know who she is. She killed a good boy in Simon, a fine boy he was. And I know who you are." He tapped the mobile beside him. "I looked you up, girl, read all about you."

My mouth tightened. "No time for games, Floyd. My sister is on remand for a kill she didn't do."

He gripped the arms of his chair, half-rose, eyes bulging. "You will call me _Mr Wickman_."

"I don't think so," I said. The dude was no _Mr Tibbs_ but I didn't want to wind him up any further. I had respect and I needed information and getting under his skin wasn't the way to do it.

I calmed my voice, relaxed. "Please," I said. "I just need to know why Simon was at Pelham Grove. Was he hooking you up?"

"No, girl, I told you."

"He wasn't bringing you drugs?"

"I'm clean."

I shook my head. "I'm clean. I look at you and I know you're not. I'm not looking to run to the cops or the press with any of this. That ain't my angle. Was this his first time? Did the deal go wrong?"

He slammed a fist into an open palm. I was still pissing him off. "I am not on drugs. Get out. You can't pick on me like this. I don't want you here."

Back in the day, his voice and bulging disco trousers had driven the women crazy. He'd been the real deal, the ultimate seventies star of the soul and disco era. Concerts, TV appearances, magazines, radio spots, a postal fan club; even my Mum had bought his records. I remembered how her Floyd Wickman LPs were always left out, like he was there in the front room with her, big shaggy hair and incredibly tight trousers, a legend down there as much as on stage.

I'd expected gold discs on the walls, a record collection, luxury furniture, a four-poster bed with satin sheets and... I don't know, whatever former singers have – but there was nothing, no evidence of his career. There were uninspiring magnolia walls, a thin carpet, basic kitchen units, a chipped dining table, a painting of a ship. The only mark of anything that carried money was a flat-screen TV but I'd heard prices were tumbling on those and they were more common now.

I sat across from him, on a two-seater with flat cushions and wooden arms. Gone was the superstar, the white-woman fantasy. Deep lines criss-crossed his dark skin, heavy bags drooped beneath his brown eyes. His hair was thinning, white, and a cane rested against his chair. He survived on benefits in a ground floor council flat. He had a view of a large green from his window with paths, benches and a playground for young children.

A solitary woman in a green coat and a blue hijab was in the playground, pushchair by her side. A little boy went down the slide for the umpteenth time, waving his arms and squealing excitedly.

It was Saturday; Simon should be with his son, doing this kind of thing. I wondered if Melanie had told Trevor those days were over forever.

I stared at Floyd Wickman and saw my Dad if he'd lived to this age. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not trying to bully you."

"You, girl? Ah, you couldn't bully me if you tried."

"I don't believe my sister killed Simon. The cops have got it wrong."

"Well we all know they've never done that before, have they?"

He chuckled. His mood was simmering. His phone began to ring. It was an alarm. He switched it off with cramped hands.

"I have to take my tablets."

The living room was open-plan. He crossed to the kitchen, using his cane. He had a terrible limp. He filled a glass at the sink, popped the tablets onto the counter. "Blood pressure, cholesterol, arthritis. These are my drugs now, girl. The days of white lines are behind me."

His words rolled long into the day but they were all shit. He was still lying about the dope. He'd asked me to leave but he hadn't pressed me to go. I liked him, despite of it, pitied him, I guessed.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" I asked.

Leaning on his cane, he nodded, smiling faintly. "That'll be nice." He went back to his chair, groaning as he sat.

"What about breakfast?" he said. "I have rolls and eggs. I like mine runny, girl, yes, yes."

There was a spark back in his eyes. He switched on the TV, a 24-hour rolling sport channel. He sat forward in his chair, in control for once with no forms and no visits, no tests or appointments or assessments. I let Floyd have his moment, indulged him in it.

"Make one for yourself," he said. "I don't want to eat alone."

I rattled round the kitchen, frying eggs, buttering rolls and making tea, impressed and surprised at the emergence of a domestic side in me. Abi was taming me. I needed to cut that out right away.

The music press had daubed Wickman the "poor man's Barry White" – a nasty jibe from a pack of white, university-educated journalists happy to sneer at the immigrant from Kingston, Jamaica. He'd silenced them, earning respect, not that he'd sought it, with a string of number one hit singles and albums and sell-out tours. He never wrote his own music, building a career of cover versions instead; Elvis, Otis, Sinatra, The Beatles, all given the Wickman treatment on vocals and electronic wizardry in the studio. There had been an x-rated mash-up of Hey Joe by Jimi Hendrix and Hey Jude by The Beatles. It was plain filth, never released commercially, but always requested when he toured.

He'd been magnificent live, better than his records, charming, powerful, a beast on stage, but in the eighties it all changed, dramatically, as new music emerged and disco faded. He resurfaced, briefly, during the mid-nineties, when a band remixed one of his tracks into a deep-house, summer anthem, firing off money in Floyd's direction \- but in spite of that, or maybe because of it, all that followed was a well-worn and familiar story of drugs, sex and police raids. His marriage disintegrated. His kids disowned him. The bank took the house and the cars. He was left with nothing. Until Simon resurrected him once again.

I bit into my egg roll. It was delicious. Wickman ate slowly, engrossed in the TV.

"Do you like football, girl?"

"No."

"I support Manchester United. I saw them play once."

He chewed, lips smacking against egg and sauce. "Women play football now. Did you know that?"

I shrugged, uninterested.

"I like women," he said. He winked at me. "Even at my age. I like you, girl. I don't mind you."

The sky outside was grey, rumbling, threatening another downpour, no sign of a white Christmas, not at this rate. The woman with the kid had gone back inside.

I set down my plate on a small coffee table. There was a newspaper, a packet of cigarette papers, a tobacco pouch.

The ceiling creaked as footsteps passed overhead.

"Do you want to see it?"

"What?"

"Don't be coy now, girl. I drive all the women crazy with it."

I blinked. It dawned on me what he was talking about. "No."

"You won't be disappointed."

"I'll throw this tea over you."

He unbuckled his belt. "No one could resist me back in the day."

"Don't even go there, man."

There was no messing in my voice. He withdrew his hands, sorted himself out, embarrassed by the whole thing.

"I'm sorry," he said, meekly.

"Forget it."

"No, no, I'm sorry. Don't tell your man, girl. I don't want no trouble here. I live a quiet life now."

"I don't have a man. I can take care of myself."

His eyes lightened. I couldn't help but smile at him, even though he had attempted to flash me, which was disgusting. Only there was something very broken in him. He wasn't a star any more - he was the old black guy you passed in the supermarket, or at the bus stop, or in the doctor's surgery and never really saw. His story was unrivalled but no one told it, or would tell it ever again.

"What happened to the money you made last year, Floyd?"

"A man like me doesn't learn."

I nodded, got up, wandered across to a wall of photographs. "Is this your family?"

"Yes." His tone was all at once polite and respectful. He struggled from his chair, balanced on his cane and came to stand with me.

"That was Earl, my brother." He pointed. "Earl been dead now, what, twenty years? No, thirty years. Him die in Tottenham. The policemen kill him dead. Those were bad times." He reflected, caught his breath. "That there is Eleanor, my ex-wife, and that is Sonya, my daughter. She's a dentist. This one here is Robert, my eldest. I don't have any of Stephen. The boy hates his photo being taken." He chuckled. "Do you want a smoke?"

"Sure."

We sat back down. I offered him one of mine but he preferred to roll his own and wanted to roll me one.

"How old are you, Mr Wickman?"

He laughed. " _Mr Wickman? Mr Wickman?_ I was rude earlier. Call me Floyd. Only the receptionist at the surgery calls me Mr Wickman."

He let out a puff of smoke.

"I was born in 1945."

"My Dad was born a year later. He was from Kingston, the same as you. His name was Ruben Samson."

His eye twinkled. "I might have known him."

"You came here when you were five-years-old. I know that much about you. You didn't know him. Dad was sixteen when he came to London."

He muted the volume on the TV. "What happened to your father?"

"The IRA killed him when I was ten. The men who tortured and shot him were never caught."

"Is this why you're chasing Simon's killer?"

I hadn't thought about it like that. Not once. "No."

"Yes it is."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is, girl."

"I thought you said my sister killed Simon."

"I was angry. That's all. Think about it, girl. You need to put right what wasn't put right then by putting it right now."

I dragged on my rollup.

"You're a smart guy, even if you are a dirty fucker."

"I can still show it to you." His hand went to his belt. "You will have never seen anything this size."

"Man, I'll batter you with that cane if you don't behave."

He smiled for a moment, and then the smile faded, the way smiles do when reality crashes in.

"You're a smart girl as well."

"That's right. I am. Who do you get your drugs from?"

He didn't answer me.

"I know you're a user. I was a user. Just not today. Or yesterday. Or last week. Who are you buying from?"

"I have a boy." He waved toward the window. "He gets them for me. He is a good boy."

"You mix with HE-7?"

"I don't know about no gangs."

"You were a gang member back in the day." I ground out the rollup, lit a fresh cigarette. "You went to prison."

He was silent. The living room was getting smoky. I opened a window. There was traffic in the distance.

"I was never in any gang. I never went to prison. It was a PR stunt to boost album sales. The media were not as thorough then, not as they are now. They called me the poor-man's Barry White. Well, he lost his brother in a gang slaying. My agent used that, turned it on its head. I was the reformed black man, the kind white people like. I was only ever about the music, girl, singing live, thousands of people hanging on to every note."

He let out a long sigh.

"I can't be seen buying drugs. You never know when there is a long-lens around. You understand me? My star faded long ago. No one cheers my name, buys my music or wants sex with me. But the media love to beat a man when he is down, especially a black man."

He relit his rollup. "I didn't phone him that night. I swear it, I had no reason to. I'm sorry about your sister. But maybe she did do it."

"You back on that trip?"

"Girls go crazy. You know that. You killed your man." I stiffened. "Girl must have found out."

I stayed by the window, a cloud of smoke drifting round me. "Found out what?" I asked.

"He had a woman tucked away." Wickman laughed. "We can never change. One woman is not enough. You know that."

"Who was she?"

"I don't know who she was. But when a man has two phones he is doing business with drugs or business with a dirty-ass woman." He dragged on his cigarette. "And Simon wasn't into drugs."

No, I thought, he was into this older mystery blonde.

TWENTY SEVEN

I caught the bus back to Stratford, top deck, at the back, my favourite spot, old habits and all that.

The first part of the journey was along a congested Barking Road, traffic stop-start, the sky above grey and oppressive.

Two girls were giving a guy sitting at the front a hard time, calling him names and flicking bits of rubbish in his direction. I swung my legs onto the seats, stretched out and ignored the three of them. The smell of urine wrinkled my nose. Reaching up, I cranked open the window, letting in a blast of cold air.

One of the girls looked round at the noise. She wore a black cap, angled, a big puffa jacket, unzipped, with a black T-shirt underneath. She was in her early teens, staring at me with a sour look like I was supposed to be afraid of her. I stared back at her; _get out of my face or regret it_. She broke off the eyeball and pitched a balled up takeaway wrapper at the dude sitting up front, taking her shame out on him.

Luxury apartment blocks flashed past, sparkling windows and balconies. The stalls of Rathbone Market had long gone. I'd ended up down here plenty of times as a teenager, a group of us skipping school, leaping on a number 69 bus to take us north. That was what we called it. Stratford to Canning Town, heading north. And the bus number was lost on none of us. The girls that made up our crew had named a list of boys they wanted to _sixty-nine._ Me, I threw out a few names, pure lies, because the only one I imagined was Jade.

She'd been there, part of our reckless group, bad language and attitude, nothing like the woman she was now. We'd roamed enemy territory in our uniforms, aware of the violent rivalry that existed between schools. There had never been any real trouble. It was pretty lame, looking back. Our gang stole from supermarkets, hung in amusement arcades and met up with truanting boys, grinding and kissing in alleyways and behind closed-down shops.

I'd known then something was missing as a wet tongue was thrust in my mouth and a raging hard-on was pushed against me. Boys hadn't excited me the way I'd excited them. I'd look at Jade and wonder if she was thinking and feeling the same thing.

I don't know how I ever ended up with Billy. I must have been running from a lot of shit, including myself.

The guy sitting at the front of the bus got off, sick of the bullying. The girls spun in their seats, looking me over. I was their next victim. The one in the cap looked a bit reluctant but her companion appeared pretty stupid and was goading her on.

"What the fuck are you gonna do?" I said. I threw out my arms wide. I didn't have time for this kind of shit. "Yeah? What are you gonna do? What? Yeah, nothing. Get the fuck downstairs."

Meekly, they slouched onto the lower deck, without a word or look. They shuffled off at the next stop.

I started making calls. The name Danny Renshaw came up blank with Melanie French.

"Have you told Trevor?"

"I told him last night," she said. "It was a bad night."

"I'm sorry."

"You'll need to be if Olivia killed his father."

She hung up. I got off the bus at Stratford, phoned DT Records. Tayla picked up.

"Hi," she said, brightly. "I'm glad you phoned, I want to ask you something."

"I need a word with Dylan," I said, cutting her short. She was hot, life was complex enough.

"Sure, hang on," she said. "But I do need to talk to you."

It could wait. Music filled the phone. There were customers in the background.

"Yo," said Dylan.

"Danny Renshaw," I said.

"Who?"

"You don't know the name?"

"No, do you think he killed Simon?"

I paused. That hadn't occurred to me. "The guy's dead. He got shot. He lived in Pelham Grove."

"Hang on..." He took the phone away. "Yeah, ten quid for that one. No, no, OK, two for fifteen. Tayla, do my man two for fifteen." He came back. "Kina, the shop is packed, let me call you back."

I grabbed a cup of tea and a cheeseburger off a hot food stand. He didn't call back. I phoned him again.

"Why did Simon have two mobiles?"

Shop noise. Nothing from Dylan.

"Dylan, stop trying to think up an excuse. You're shit at lying. We've agreed on that, yeah?"

He laughed. "Yeah, got that right."

"What about the two phones, man?"

His tone grew serious. "I don't know."

"But he had two, right?"

"Yeah, I saw them a few times."

"One for home and one for his secret woman, right?"

"I don't know anything about that. Besides, what does it matter? Wait, do you think she killed him?"

"A witness saw a woman with blonde hair arguing with Simon that night. Olivia saw a blonde on his phone."

"Listen," he said. "Simon worked hard, Kina. You know what I'm saying? He put in a lot of hours at the studio working with different bands and working on his own music. I can't see how he had the time to be off with some other woman."

"He could have met her at Boxes nightclub after the awards evening."

"Maybe. I don't know. I want to help you. Simon was my friend. But I don't know anything else."

He seemed genuine. "OK," I said, tossing away the polystyrene cup of tea. "Hey, thanks for the warning about Floyd."

Dylan laughed once more. "Did he get it out?"

"He wanted to."

"He does that to everyone. Me as well. I bet he can't even..."

The line went dead. I checked my mobile. No battery. Shit. I headed over to Abi's flat.

* * *

"You forgot the phone," said Abi.

She was in the bathroom, cleaning. Her black hair was tied back. She wore leggings, skin-tight, moulding her, no underwear. Christmas socks covered her feet. A loose T-shirt hung over her near-flat chest.

The radio was playing, Christmas tunes. She got to her feet, rinsed her hands. She hugged me, sweaty and red-faced, and offered me tea.

"Sure," I said, sitting at the kitchen table. The flat was warm, reeking of lemon and bleach.

I slipped off my jacket, lit a cigarette. Felix was nowhere. Abi bustled round the kitchen. I hadn't seen this side of her; the commitment to cleanliness. I'd judged her harshly in the week. It was clearly me with the problem. The girl was messy, not dirty. I was getting that. I was getting something else to - a desire to stay and it was a scary and warm feeling rolled into one. _I wasn't sure if I was going to run away from her. Running away I did best._

"I want you here tonight," she said, turning suddenly, following my eyes as they roamed her tight body. "They'll be time for that." I remembered the wholesaler was closed at the weekend. "First, I need to get my cleaning done. I've got so behind lately. I can't think why." Her eyes teased behind silver-rimmed glasses. "Then I want to put up the decorations, have a bath and cook us a meal. Afterward, we can go to the bar, like you wanted to last night."

I blew out a stream of smoke. "That sounds perfect." I smiled at her. "Would you like to go back to my flat after the bar?"

"Are you sure?"

"You said you wanted to see it."

"I do but only if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

She made the tea whilst I plugged in my mobile.

"Where's the phone from the off-license?" I asked.

She pointed at a drawer. She didn't have time to stop and carried her tea into the bathroom, singing gently as she started up her cleaning.

I rooted out the phone. I knew it was a long shot and could've been lying there for months but I was praying one of Mr Bhola's attackers had dropped it.

I switched it on, relieved to find it wasn't pin-protected. There was an image of a girl with white-streaked brown hair. She was poking out her tongue and flashing the middle finger. I recognised her at once; the girl with the gold jacket, one of the gang who'd chased me the first time I was at Pelham Grove.

She had a never-ending list of contacts and thousands of media files. In fact, there were 4,261 files. The newest media file was a video. I had a sickening feeling what it would be of.

I clicked play. The noise was tinny, the screen moving round fast. Christmas tunes circled the flat, Abi's voice jumping in here and there. But the noise of the video grew and Abi stopped singing and came and stood in the bathroom doorway. I glanced up at her, said nothing, dragged hard on my cigarette and flicked ash. There were four of them smashing up the shop and fighting with Mr Bhola. He was clubbed with a bat, punched and kicked as he went down. They were masked, hooded, but I recognised Smoke and Bounce easily enough.

Abi came over to me, putting down her sponge and spray bottle. "That's horrible."

"I know."

"I feel sick even listening to it."

Mr Bhola was on the ground. Bounce was jumping on his back. There was a loud crash and cheering and the video swerved and focused on the front window as giant panes of glass collapsed over the pavement.

The phone spun once more and the girl with white-streaked brown hair filled the screen.

She was about fourteen. "Yeah, this is what happens when you mess with..."

"You little bitch," screamed a voice, and a bloodied Mr Bhola lunged into view. Smoke and Bounce were laughing in the background.

"Get the fuck," shouted the girl in the gold jacket. The video blurred as the phone spun from her hand.

I stared at Abi.

She stared back at me.

"Are these the ones who attacked you last night?"

"Yeah."

"Did they kill Simon?"

"Probably."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"What kind of girl does that?"

I stabbed out my cigarette, didn't answer. _I'd been that kind of girl, Abi. You know that._

"How could she take part in that? Did you hear the way she was laughing when they were beating him?"

She switched off the Christmas music.

"What did you do that for?" I asked.

"Not in the mood," she said, and went back to cleaning the bathroom.

I drained my tea. "I'll be out for the rest of the day," I said.

TWENTY EIGHT

The car park was underground.

It was raining outside and there was a steady drip from the roof. I skirted puddles and loitered behind a pillar, shivering in the cold. It was gloomy, damp, late in the afternoon, dark outside, the grind of traffic above, shops heaving.

Since leaving Abi's flat I'd spent the time checking out the hotels near Boxes nightclub. I worked out a ruse that I used repeatedly. I flashed the picture of Simon on my phone, claiming he was my boyfriend and that I needed to check up on him because I suspected him of cheating with another woman.

The staff I spoke to were women, generally sympathetic and helpful, on all but one occasion, the Red House, where the woman behind the counter, who could barely muster a word of English, practically threw me out.

I got them to run his name through the computer for last night. Unsurprisingly, it came back with nothing.

"I'm sorry, he wasn't here."

I feigned a hurt look, which wasn't hard to conjure up, because I rarely smiled anyway and I had a few bruises, too.

"I know what I can do," they'd say. "I'll open up the search for the past twelve months. See if he was here another night."

The hurt woman routine worked but still nothing came back on the computer. From hotel to hotel I trudged, hour after hour, sky darkening, spots of rain slowly beginning to fall. There were people rushing about, Christmas shopping. It was madness, even in the back streets where there were no shops. I climbed the steps of another hotel, drew a blank and continued to widen the search. I had three more to check out when the call I'd been waiting on came.

She gave me the address for the meet. I told her I was five minutes away. I dropped my cigarette, buried my hands in my pockets, headed off.

The car swept down the ramp, headlights on. She reversed into a parking spot, left the engine running.

I watched her for a few seconds and then emerged from the shadows. She killed the engine, switched off the lights. I strolled over to her car, looking round all the time, a crawling sensation in the pit of my stomach.

I got in.

"What can I do for you, Kina?" said DS Corrigan.

I ignored her, initially, and peered through the windscreen, raking my eyes over the rows of cars.

"Just you?"

"Day off," she said. "Besides, I think I can trust you."

I glanced at her. She wore a leather jacket over jeans and boots. "Yeah, right," I said.

"Why are we talking? Do you have information concerning a crime? For example, the discharge of a firearm in Pelham Grove yesterday evening."

"I don't know nothing about that," I said.

"What do you want, Kina?"

I waved her card at me. "You gave me this, remember? The first time you pulled me in. You said I should contact you if I wanted help."

"Are you in trouble?"

"No."

"Then what help are you looking for?"

I reached into my pocket. She tensed. "No weapon," I said, and calmly withdrew a memory stick. I tossed it onto the dashboard. It was a childish action but I couldn't bring myself to hand it directly to her. She had to understand. I'd grown up in a world where touts – in Belfast we called them touts, not grasses – touts get tarred, feathered and shot in the head, dick hacked off and stuffed in the mouth, dumped in the street with a sign round the neck that read _TOUT._ Talking to the cops was like deciding to stop breathing. And the cops had put me away for eleven years. Sure, I did the crime. _Don't do the crime if you can't do the time._ That wasn't funny. I wasn't laughing. No one was. Not even Corrigan. This was a line I never thought I would cross. But this was for someone else, not me.

"I'm no fucking tout."

"I understand."

"But Mr Bhola is a good man. He works hard. The shit that went down in his shop was wrong."

She picked up the memory stick.

"That's a video of the off-licence attack," I said. "Three boys and one girl. The girl filmed it. You get a close up of her. The boys are masked but I recognise Smoke and Bounce. I only know their street names."

"Smoke is Gary McCallum. Bounce is Richard Quaresma. They're old customers. Did the girl have brown hair with white streaks?"

"Yeah."

"That's Nicky Lopez. She's another old customer. Real nice girl. Walked free on aggravated burglary last month."

Voices echoed through the car park. A family arrived back at their car, laden with bags. Boot filled, belts on, they quickly drove away.

"This is a big step for you," said Corrigan. "I'm pleased you took it."

"Don't get this twisted," I said. "I'm not about to become a regular informer. But these boys and this fucking girl deserve to get done for this."

She pocketed the memory stick. "I have news about your sister's case."

My stomach clenched. "What news?"

"You know I can't divulge that, Kina. But it's good news. Wait for the call. The case is going to get blown open." She paused. "How is your inquiry going?"

I thought for a moment. "There are parts of Simon's life that I can't find a way into. Not yet, anyway."

She patted her jacket pocket. "Thank you for this."

I grinned. "That wasn't a gift, Corrigan, it was a trade."

"You didn't make that clear."

"Well, it's clear now. Tell me about Danny Renshaw."

Her fingers drummed the steering wheel. She had gorgeous nails, perfectly-shaped and painted a shade of dark purple.

"Why was he being watched?"

Silence.

"Bailey and Macklin had surveillance photographs of him. What was the guy into?"

Silence.

"So this is how it works, right? I help you and you give me shit in return. Should've dealt with this old school."

I hadn't expected her to move on me. Her hands went inside my jacket, padding my clothes, running along my arms, chest and stomach.

"Sit forward," she said.

I followed her instructions. Her hands glided across my back. She ran her hands down my legs.

"Give me your phone," she said.

"What?"

"Phone, Kina. Right now."

I handed it over. She checked it wasn't recording.

"Now we can talk," she said.

"Why did Dominic Johnson... Scarface... shoot Renshaw?"

"That's street talk only. We don't know that he did. We do know he has enough soldiers willing to kill once the order is given."

"Why was Renshaw under surveillance?"

"He's an arms dealer. Handguns, Mac-10s, shotguns. He's put a lot of them on the street. Black kids keep picking them up. Look, Macklin has been working this case for ten months. A lot of hard work and good leads disappeared when Renshaw was gunned down. That's why she was pissed at you. She thought you were the shooter."

"That bitch has a bigger problem with me."

"Janice isn't colour blind, I know that." Corrigan laughed, bitterly. "But she's a good detective. I don't want you clashing with her. Keep out of her way."

"She reckoned I was too white for you, too black for her."

Corrigan licked her lips. I got it she wasn't surprised. Her mobile buzzed. She checked the screen, switched it off.

"You rise above comments like that, Kina. Do you hear me?"

"I get you."

Another family returned to the car park, four kids in tow, tired-looking, clutching takeaway bags.

"Renshaw left a sympathy card and a teddy bear at the spot Simon was killed. _Too young to die._ Why would he do that?"

"I don't know."

"Was there a connection between them?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Just a coincidence then," I said. "Simon gets stabbed, Renshaw leaves a sympathy card and then he gets put down."

More families. More cars zipping away onto the busy London streets. I glanced at the dashboard clock.

"Do you want a lift?" she asked.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" I replied.

"I mind."

She gunned the engine, switched on the lights. The radio burst to life, tunes from days gone by, warped bass lines, rapid drumbeats.

"This your scene? You got a dark side to you?" I asked.

"No." She pushed in a CD. Screeching guitars poured from the speakers. I winced at the noise.

The rain-swept streets were choked with traffic. I stared at the crowded pavements and packed shops. That feeling came on, the one I hated, the reminder that I wasn't part of this.

"You frown a lot," said Corrigan. We were at a red light. "I was a bit hard on you in that first interview."

"Yeah, you were."

"But then you had just run from a crime scene." She smiled. "The news concerning your sister should bring some relief to your family."

"Tell me what it is."

"I can't. It needs to go through the proper channels."

"For fuck's sake," I muttered.

We meandered in heavy traffic. The seat was comfortable. My aching body wanted to slip into a deep sleep.

"How are the bruises?" said Corrigan, eyes on the road. "I could feel you tense up in pain when I frisked you."

"Nah, I always tense when a cop searches me. Never know what you're gonna plant."

She laughed. I was surprised. The music ended. Another rock track came on, same as the first one, so it seemed.

"Simon received a call the night he was killed. I know you don't have his phone but was the call ever traced?"

"I was taken off the case before his mobile records came back. From what I heard there was no incoming or outgoing calls that night."

"He had a second phone," I said. "The call probably came through on that."

Her eyes flicked toward me for a moment. "I'm off the case. I don't know anything about a second phone."

There was silence until she pulled up outside Abi's block of flats.

"Thanks for the evidence. I'll get it to the officer working the off-licence attack."

"I thought that was you."

"No, I investigate murders, Kina. I was in the area when the call came through. I told you that on the day."

"Why _were_ you taken off Simon's case?"

She sighed. "Internal politics."

TWENTY NINE

Appearance wasn't something that consumed me.

I hadn't thought about it or cared for it in a long time. On a normal day, I freshened up, threw on regular clothes and that was it. I didn't dress to impress. Tonight would be different.

Showered, I dressed in black underwear, fitted dark red jeans and a collarless white shirt, snipping off the price tags beforehand. I sat at Abi's dressing table, her cat Felix stretched on the bed, watching me with a typical cat expression – not interested. Eye liner and mascara on, I ran a pale pink lipstick across my lips and fixed a chunky gold chain round my neck, the only piece of jewellery I owned. I'd bought it from a market stall, not long after getting out.

I stared into the mirror for a moment; tightly-curled hair, dark eyes, freckled nose and cheeks. Then I looked away, unable to hold my own gaze, ashamed how I was indulging myself.

There was a cell back there, four walls and a bunk, a door and a barred window, just waiting for me, waiting for me to slip.

It was the thing Abi had yet to understand. The thing ordinary people just didn't get. I'd done my time but those hard years had been for Billy. There was a heap of shit I hadn't done time for, crimes that had never been solved or even reported. Floyd had been close on the money; he guessed I was trying to find Simon's killer because my own dad's killers had never been caught. There was truth there, grainy truth, but it was a more complex raft of emotions that had propelled me to investigate. It wasn't only Olivia languishing on remand, either.

There was redemption. I think I sought that more than anything. Answers would give me sanity for the things that still burdened me. And in a moment like this, when I tried, when I really tried to be normal, whatever that was, the past rushed back to torment me, to remind me of one thing; I was worthless and deserved nothing.

I wanted one night with Abi where I didn't hate myself... _was that too much to ask?_

Stepping out of the bedroom, I was suddenly an awkward teenager, unable to stand up straight, fidgeting with my hands, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears.

A Christmas tree twinkled and glowed by the window. The table had been set, best wine glasses.

Abi emerged from the kitchen. Mouth-watering smells followed her. She smiled at me.

"You look beautiful."

I averted my eyes.

"Stop it," I said.

She pressed her body tight, kissed me.

"You've even stopped frowning," she said.

The comment startled me. Corrigan had said a similar thing.

"What do you mean?"

"You're always frowning. You don't even realise you do it."

She kissed me again. "Open the wine. I need to check on dinner."

I cracked open a bottle.

"Five minutes," called Abi.

She had the radio on and was grinding out moves as she finished preparing the food. Nothing could go wrong tonight. I wouldn't allow it. I'd make love to her because up until now I'd fucked and she was stirring feelings in me, scary feelings, _really scary feelings_ , but as the drink swam in my head and flowed through my body, I didn't care. I would surrender every fear and desire tonight. I would hold her forever.

I grabbed a quick cigarette. My mobile buzzed. Abi groaned from the kitchen.

"Seriously?"

"It's Mum," I said. I answered. "Yeah?"

"Kina, where have you been? For the love of God I've been trying to call you."

"I was taking a shower."

"Sure, do you not check your phone?"

"No, Mum, not in the shower. What's...?"

"What's the point of a phone if ...?"

"Mum, you say that all the time. Has...?"

"That's because I'm right. Now..."

"Mum, I'm about to have dinner."

"The solicitor has been in touch. There's news on Olivia's case."

I listened, pacing and smoking, trying to shoe-horn in a few questions and getting nowhere. She was going at a hundred miles an hour. I wandered into the kitchen and saw the chaos. _Even that wasn't going to spoil my night._ I wandered back out, phone clamped to my ear, idly straightening the cutlery and empty bowls.

"Food's ready, Kina," said Abi.

"Who's that?" said Mum. "Have you someone with you?"

"Yes."

"Is that your new girlfriend?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sure, I'll never see a grandchild at this rate. I got an email from Mairead Deary last week. Her Bernadette has had another wee one. That's seven, Kina, seven grandchildren. I've no chance when you're carrying on like this with... with _girls_. I thought you would've grown out of this nonsense by now."

I took the phone into the bedroom, perched on the corner of the bed. "Yeah, sorry, I'll try to."

She stopped, a train hitting the buffers.

"Don't you cheek me, girl."

I rolled my eyes. "Mum, is this definite about Olivia?"

"Aye, of course it is. Why would I call you if it wasn't?"

"So the witness has dropped out, right?"

"Aye. She never saw Olivia. Or anyone that night. She wasn't even home, Kina. She'd been online reading up on the case and was able to pick out Olivia because she already knew what she looked like. She's done this before, reading between the lines of what the solicitor said. I told you cops get lazy when the Irish are involved."

"She's half-Irish, Mum."

"Sure, it's the same thing."

"Kina..." called Abi.

"Look, I have to go. What does Douglas think?"

"Sure, the same as me." _I bet he does._

"Is there a chance we can get her out?"

"I don't know. Dear God, I hope so, Kina. I hope so. They only have the knife and a few other things."

I stubbed out my cigarette. "Call me if you hear anything more." I went back into the living room, smiling.

"Tell me over food," said Abi.

She fussed, making me sit whilst she carried in the meal; penne pasta in a creamy carbonara sauce, meatballs prepared from scratch, seasoned with basil and marinated in a tomato and mascarpone sauce. There was sliced garlic bread, crunchy Caesar salad, breadsticks, parmesan cheese, breaded garlic mushrooms. There was enough food for a week.

Candlelight reflected off her silver-rimmed glasses. Her black hair was loose on her shoulders. She wore a tight-fitting electric blue dress that shaped her desirable figure.

I thought of Jade, for a fleeting moment. She'd moved on. It was my time to do the same.

We toasted. "It's perfect," I said. "You're perfect."

"This is for you," she said, watching me over the rim of her glass. "I want you to know how much you mean to me, how much I care about you."

"Two-way, right?"

"Yes, two-way."

I nodded.

"You mean the same to me," I said, struggling. "You know that, right?"

She dug into her pasta. "Tonight you can show me."

I savoured every bite. Not just the taste but the effort she'd put into cooking. It was hard to explain. It was like she'd put love in the food. Corny, I know, but that's what it was like. We put away two bottles of white as well. That helped. I updated Abi with Olivia's case. It was beginning to fall apart. The solicitor would be working on getting the murder charge thrown out. I then shared stories of my childhood, growing up with British soldiers on the streets and police stations hunkered down behind barbed wire, night raids by the RUC and riots during the marching season. To outsiders, it must have appeared horrific. But it had been a good place to live, it probably still was, with a humour all of its own. Abi laughed at the characters I described to her, many of them probably still up to the same old nonsense all these years on.

It was past ten pm. The table was littered with empty bowls, empty bottles. We were night people, ready to go. I phoned for a cab whilst Abi grabbed our jackets. We kissed, a long and passionate kiss, tempted to cancel the cab and head for the bedroom, but we didn't want the night to reach that point, not yet.

Dalston was noisy, reeling with Saturday night people, the streets slick and shiny, bright lights from clubs and headlights. There was a wail of sirens in the distance as we reached _Heaven 101._

The bouncers looked cold as they stood chatting football. We went inside, ordered cocktails. Abi wanted me in the basement to dance. I wasn't ready for that. I kept at the bar so she pushed off her stool and danced against me, throwing out sultry moves as the DJ filled the speakers with trip-hop.

An hour later, when Abi was in the toilet, I got a text from Corrigan: _Arrests going down. Lopez on the run._

I tucked the phone away, craved a smoke. Abi emerged from the toilet and fell into animated conversation with two women she knew. I caught her eye, signalled I was going outside.

There was a woman out there already, halfway through her cigarette. She nodded and smiled at me. I smiled back, lit up and watched the traffic. The woman dropped into casual chat with me. I muttered a few responses.

She was white, similar in age to me, spiky hair, shaved at the sides, jagged lines. Under a thick black coat she wore torn blue jeans, a black vest top, no bra, nipples pierced, both of them, clear to see in the cold air. There was a large stone-coloured cross round her neck. I realised I'd seen her before – she'd been in the bar the first time I'd come here. I thought she had her eyes on me, or Abi, or both of us.

"So you're with Abi?" she said.

It was the first time the conversation had grown personal. I sobered, immediately, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah."

She smiled. "Abi's a good kid. But you need to be careful with her." She chuckled. "She breaks easily."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The only answer I got was an exaggerated shrug. _Isn't it obvious?_

"Well?"

"Abi's a little girl, really. She likes mature women but she can't cope with mature relationships."

"That right?"

She must have guessed by my look I was pissed with her. She was lucky I hadn't clattered her in the mouth.

"Well, I'm just offering a bit of friendly advice. That's all." She held up her hands. "It's up to you what you do with it."

I'd met her kind inside; pure poison, the worse kind of predator, intelligent, refined, a total shit-stirrer. Someone you might listen to, even trust, but they were pulling all the strings, spinning their own web and it didn't take much to guess she wanted Abi in the middle of it, if she hadn't been there already.

I blew out smoke, leaned into her. "You even whisper her name and I'll fuck you up. You get me?" I stepped back, smiling. "You get me, yeah? Yeah? How's that for friendly advice?"

The bouncers glanced over, mildly intrigued. "It's all good," I said, a little unsteady from the wine and cocktails.

Back inside, I found a place at the bar, ordered drinks.

* * *

We had it out in the back of the cab. The driver was Pakistani. He turned up his radio as we drunkenly got stuck in.

"Her name is Jacky. I dated her for a week. It was a mistake." said Abi. "Where is this jealously coming from?"

"Jealously? I'm not fucking jealous."

"You are because you always start swearing when you're in the wrong. You don't hear me swearing."

The driver bravely spoke up. "Oh, no, this is not very good."

"Just mind your own," I snapped.

"Kina, don't talk to him like that."

"I'm not jealous. Why would I be jealous? I've met her kind before. They like to throw shit and let you spray it round for them."

The cab swerved as a police car raced past, lights flashing, siren wailing.

"Well, you're doing exactly what she wanted. Chucking all that shit at me and after the evening we've had."

It was like a punch in the jaw. I turned away, ashamed at how easily I'd been manipulated.

"Something is happening," said the driver.

I barked at him, I couldn't even remember what I said.

"Kina," said Abi, grabbing my arm, squeezing.

The car rounded the corner, broke hard.

"What the fuck is...?"

I cut my words short. He'd seen it a mile back and had been trying to warn us. I hadn't listened. All these years and I still didn't listen.

"Oh, my God," said Abi.

I shoved open the car door, stepped out onto the road, wrinkled my nose.

Black smoke pumped into the night sky. A fire engine was getting close. The police car was at the kerb, blue lights revolving.

Flames licked through the off-licence and the flat above; Mr Bhola's business was gone, and so was my home.

THIRTY

"Who's this?" said Dylan, yawning.

"Kina McKevie," I said. "I need you to pick me up in Dalston."

I gave him Abi's address.

"Shit, Kina, man, it's nearly four in the morning. What's going on?"

"You said you wanted to help, right?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then help."

I switched off the mobile. Abi was sat at the table, food-encrusted bowls, candles burnt down, wine glasses empty.

She was crying softly. _Abi's a little girl, she can't cope with mature relationships._

I stamped angrily through the flat. "I didn't have much. A few clothes, my radio and the books from the library." I though back to Corrigan's text message. _Arrests going down. Lopez on the run._ "That bitch."

Abi sniffed. "Who's the bitch now? Jacky? Me? Who, Kina? You?" She swept her arm over the table. "What was the point of all this?"

"You don't get it," I shouted. "You fucking don't get it." She recoiled. "There are two of me, Abi. _Two of me._ The one that killed Billy and the one that... the one that cares about you. Scarface and his crew are never going to stop. Do you get me? What if we had left the bar an hour earlier?"

Too much had happened for that to have even dropped into her thoughts. Her face turned pale.

"Yeah, that would have been us up there. This is a proper _badman_. He shot Danny Renshaw, the gun dealer, you hear me? Why, I don't know." _I glimpsed the white boy, messing with the revolver, swearing angrily as the chamber refused to roll and give him another shot._ "Maybe he supplies shit guns, I don't know. But Scarface won't stop. Billy was the same. He could never stop." I glided a hand across my stomach. "They never stop, Abi." I slammed a fist into my head. Abi gasped. "They never fucking stop. I have to be the other Kina. I have to be the other Kina. _I have to stop them._ "

I hated my voice. I hated every word that passed my lips. I stared at her for a long time.

"Oh, Jesus, oh, Christ." I knelt before her. "Abi, I am sorry. I am so so sorry. What am I doing to you? I shouldn't have rushed into things like this. I'm not ready, Abi. I don't want to hurt you."

"I know that."

I found a drop of wine, poured, set the glass at her hand. "I don't want anything to drink," she said.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes were misty. "I know you're sorry. Think about how you handled things today. How you gave that evidence to the police? That was the right way to solve things, Kina. Not this other way. Do you want to go back to prison?"

I pulled up a chair, took out my cigarettes, lit two, handed her one. "Why are you always right?"

She laughed, and then cried a little. "Jacky was right about me. I'm no good at grown up things."

"Jacky is a bitch."

"No, she's right."

"You manage people at work. You have your own place. You take care of Felix... and me." I squeezed her hand. "Jacky wanted to wind me up and succeeded. I think it started with Mum earlier. She does the same thing. These people play me so easily. They know how to manipulate me."

We smoked, thoughts tumbling.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Find Nicky Lopez."

"What about us?"

I kissed her lips. "Let me start again."

She took off her glasses, wiped her eyes. She picked up the wine I'd poured, drank it in one hit.

"We need to talk about where you're going to live," said Abi. She frowned. "What were the library books?"

"Nothing, just reference books about birds... I like birds."

She looked at me.

"Birds?"

"Yeah, birds."

She couldn't help but smile.

"Is that a joke?"

"No, I'm being serious; magpies, robins, finches. I like reading about them. It helps... calm me."

A car pulled up outside.

"I think I need to get you some new books then."

My mobile buzzed. I kissed her forehead.

* * *

Dylan was still yawning. "That where your man lives?"

I watched him as I pulled the seatbelt across, saying nothing. He was doing the typical guy thing; _I know that's a woman up there. How much of it are you going to tell me?_

Maybe I should tell him we argue and fuck like a regular couple. After tonight's outburst, I wasn't sure how long that would last. I nudged down the window and lit a cigarette.

"Hoppings," I said.

"I've just driven past there."

I looked at him again. He kissed his teeth, slammed the car into gear. He glanced at me as we drove through the night. I always thought of it as night until the sun broke, even though it was, technically, the early hours of the morning, the empty hours, the worrying hours, the suicide hours; whatever.

"Remind me why I'm doing this," said Dylan.

"Because I'm going to find the bastard who murdered your best friend and we both know it wasn't my sister."

He grinned. "That shut me up."

There was hardly any traffic around, barely any lights showing. A few groups of drunken men and women skittered along the pavements. One group lurched into the path of the car and Dylan was forced to swerve, tyres squealing.

"Good reactions, my man."

He angled in his seat, glided one hand over his head, turned on the charm. "You should see my reactions in bed."

I laughed, and so did he. It helped release the tension. My head was clearing. I'd put away plenty of drink tonight, too much. I needed to cut down on the alcohol, and the takeaway food, and hit the gym. I was gaining pounds. I knew it was happening. I couldn't mess around. I had to stay tight, sharp.

"They burned out my flat," I said.

"Shit."

I told him about the Lopez recording of the off-licence attack.

"Yeah, I know her. She's fucking trouble that girl." He paused. I knew what he was thinking. "But you gave the video to the cops, right?"

"What would you have done?"

"It ain't seen for us to do that, you know what I mean? As black people..."

"Don't give me all that shit."

He laughed. "That's Tayla rubbing off on me. Everything is a statement."

"You hitting that?" I asked, casually.

"Nah, man, I'm not hitting that. I got me a girl. Her name is Hannah and she is proper pissed at you for waking us up in the middle of the night."

The Hoppings came into view.

"No dealers," I said. "No one around."

"See that," said Dylan, nodding.

"Yeah," I said.

There was a car parked beneath a row of bare trees, non-descript, unremarkable, a guy at the wheel.

"The message I got was that the gangsters had been rounded up," I said. "That cop is waiting for Nicky Lopez to return. That ain't going to happen. Cops don't know nothing. This is the one place we ain't gonna find her."

I took out her phone, began to scroll through the media files. I asked Dylan to drive the streets.

Grumbling, he did.

"You ain't afraid to be with me then?" he asked, suddenly.

"Why should I be?"

"Someone killed my best friend. It could've been me. Or Melanie. You gave her a hard time when you interviewed her."

I lowered the phone, looked at him.

"Did the cops interview you?"

"Sure."

"Did you give them an alibi?"

"I was with Hannah the night Simon died."

"Then what the fuck are you chatting about?"

He yawned. "I don't know. Man, I'm hungry. I need some food, you get me? I'm no taxi, you know."

"You said you wanted to help."

"I do."

"Then this is helping."

He drummed the wheel. "I'm still hungry."

"You find somewhere open we'll eat," I said, my own stomach growling.

"What are you looking for?" he said, indicating the mobile.

"An idea of where she might be."

"I can't believe they burned down your yard, man. That's messed up. You know, I might be able to hook you up a place."

"No strings, right?"

He laughed. "No strings."

"Where?"

"Above the shop."

"I'll think about it." I paused. "Thank you."

We drove on, street after street. Dylan found a 24-hour convenience store that sold hot food.

"Get me whatever you're having," I said, handing him a note.

It was nearly 6am, still dark, street lamps glowing. I imagined Abi in bed with Felix, fast asleep. I wanted to be with her, hold her. I shifted in my seat as I continued to roll through the files on Nicky's phone. The girl loved her selfies; angry ones, pouty ones, she had them all. And places she hung, and stuff she'd bought or lifted, and anyone she met and liked or dissed. Her life was catalogued through her phone. There were plenty of guys, mostly Smoke and Bounce. It was clear, the further I got, she was fucking at least one or both of them.

Dylan got back into the car. "Sausage rolls," he said.

I tossed it on the dashboard, without a word, intrigued by a series of more personal photographs I'd come across. This was a different side to Nicky Lopez. There was a young boy in all of them. She was making him breakfast, cutting his hair, knotting his school tie. I was suddenly grateful she lived her life through her phone.

"Acne-Boy," I said.

"What?" Dylan licked pastry flakes from his lips. I flashed him the phone. "I think this is her brother. The little fucker put a firework through my letterbox. He hassles all the local shops in Stratford. I call him Acne-Boy."

I grabbed the sausage roll from the dashboard, unwrapped it.

"That's Clarence. He came in the shop during the summer and tried to lift vinyl. I bet he doesn't even know what vinyl is. Probably thinks it's a Frisbee. I chased him out a few times. He threatened me with _HE-7,_ like he's anything to do with them."

"His sister is," I said.

"Clarence lives with this guy. I saw him once, told him to keep his boy in line. My man came back with _he ain't my boy_."

"Where was this?" I asked.

Dylan shrugged. "I don't know. Near the station ..."

"Let me think," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, going back to that day when I ran onto Clement Drive. Nicky Lopez had been in the middle of the close with the boys before taking a call.

" _Nah, nah, don't sweat it. Nah, we're after some bitch. She just put down Smoke and Bounce. I know, I know."_

No, it wasn't that, what else had she said?

"What are we doing?" asked Dylan.

"Man, hold your tongue a minute."

" _Yeah, I just left it like that, yeah, I know, what the fuck can I do? I don't want to go back there. She's a fucking bitch... I reckon I should. Yeah, yeah, go ..."_

"Are we just gonna sit here, Kina? I could be home in bed with..."

"... _live with them at the Wax. Yeah, catch you later."_

"Live with _them_ at the Wax. Them meaning Clarence and this random dude."

Dylan twisted the ignition. "Waxley Court is at the back of the train station."

Cars appeared on the road; tired shift workers getting home. I wolfed down the sausage roll, one hand continuously guiding my way through the files on Nicky's mobile. A curved road of terraced houses bent round into Waxley Court. There was only one road in and it was jammed with cars half-parked on the cracked pavements. We nosed into a poorly-lit car park, slowing alongside the blackened remains of a bonfire.

A train clattered past, the six-floor building shook. Lights flashed and illuminated a stack of crumbling, brown-painted flats. There were council notices plastered over the doors and windows.

"Man, this place is bad," said Dylan.

There was graffiti everywhere and large bins overflowing with black rubbish sacks and odd pieces of furniture. A children's playground had been fenced-off - there were warning signs to KEEP OUT.

Dylan pointed at a solitary light on the third floor. "You reckon they're in that one?"

"Yeah, reckon that's someone still trying to figure out what to do."

I was about to switch off the mobile when I decided to view one more video.

"Oh, fuck," I said, mesmerised.

I punched the volume button.

Angry voices, screams...

Dylan turned in his seat. I angled the mobile toward him.

"Simon..." he whispered.

PART FOUR

THIRTY ONE

It was still dark.

I pocketed the mobile, stunned.

"Fuck," said Dylan. His gloved hands tightened round the wheel, leather against vinyl. "He never told me that shit had gone down. I didn't know."

It grew cold in the car. _Really fucking cold._

"All this time... it was because of this... what he... I didn't know."

He stared at me.

"Kina, I didn't know."

I nodded. "That's why he went to a hotel after the award evening. He didn't have a girl with him. He just couldn't face going home. He was carrying round guilt, Dylan. That was why he lost interest in Olivia and his album. It was all guilt."

"And Nicky Lopez started it, right?" he said, glaring up at the flats, menace in his eyes and voice.

"Yeah, there's footage of them in Boxes nightclub. It started there."

"Did she kill him?"

"I don't know."

Dylan licked his lips, shook his head and slammed his palm against the wheel. He got out, went to the boot. I heard him dig around for a moment. I looked up at the flat, the light was still on. I lit up, got out. Dylan shut the boot. There was a tyre wrench in his hand.

"In case my man up there wants to start shit," he said. The humour had gone from his eyes. He was determined, focused. His breathing was short as the anger surged through his veins.

"Let's get this done," I said.

We walked toward the lobby doors in silence, processing what we'd seen, what we now both knew. The air was bitter. Dylan grabbed the door. It was gloomy inside and stinking. The lift had council notices plastered across it. Something scratched around in the dark and fled as we approached. The stairs were worn, floor tiles missing, walls covered in graffiti. We couldn't hear a sound, not even a TV switched on, cartoons for the little ones. There was nothing, just our footsteps. I guessed most of the tenants had been rehoused. Waxley Court was coming down. It was a good thing.

"Is that why they killed him?"

I didn't answer.

"Because he was a witness?"

I still didn't answer.

"Why didn't they do it then? Why wait all that time?"

Posters of men in suits with the word _TRAITOR_ printed across them lined one wall. One of the guys looked like a politician I'd seen on TV a few times. He'd been prime minister or something.

"Which one of them did it?"

"Dylan, man, I don't know. I don't have the answers."

"You got all the answers," he said. "You found that phone. The cops didn't."

We hit the third floor. The scrawl of graffiti was fresher up here. Acne-Boy had been busy.

I looked at Dylan. He looked back at me. There was no way we were knocking on this door.

"You get the guy," I said. "Leave that bitch Nicky to me."

We crashed through the door. There was a startled shout and a man appeared in an open doorway, wearing a bathrobe. He was wiry and dark-haired, his chin covered in shaving foam.

Dylan whipped out the wrench and the man recoiled into the bathroom he'd come from, hands raised, pleading.

I spun into the living room, eyes alert. Nicky was coming off the sofa, tossing aside a blanket. She was in denim shorts, black tights and her familiar gold jacket. A hand covered in rings grabbed at a beer bottle. I lashed her with a vicious roundhouse kick, perfectly timed. She flipped, losing the bottle.

Movement out of the corner of my eye. Clarence roared at me. I flashed out an arm, back-handed him across the face. He came at me a second time and I hit him again. I grabbed hold of him, hurled him onto the sofa. Nicky was on her feet, blood trickling from her mouth.

"Fucking mash you up, bitch," she said.

I hit her, harder than she'd ever been hit. She was always in a crowd, pouncing on a solitary victim. There was no crowd this time. Her knees sagged and she went down on the sofa alongside her brother.

"Stop it, just stop it," shouted a voice.

Dylan pushed the brown-haired man into the living room. He rushed over to the two kids, shaking his head.

He'd wiped the foam off his face. I could see him better. There was some family resemblance. "Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"

"She knows what I want," I said, pointing at Nicky.

Nicky giggled. "Fuck you."

"He's their uncle," said Dylan.

"That's right," said the man, eyes flitting between us. "I'm Gary. Look, please, there's nothing to take. We don't even have a TV. After Christmas this whole block comes down and we won't even have a place to live."

I stepped forward. "Your fucking niece made sure I ain't got no place to live, neither. She burnt out my flat."

"Shame you weren't in it," said Nicky.

"You done the Paki shop?" said Clarence, bouncing excitedly. "Respect."

"Shut up," she shouted at him. "This is nothing to do with you."

His face reddened. He eyeballed me. "Bitch, you're dead. _HE-7_ gonna fuck you up. Put you on your knees..."

"Clarence, stop it," said Gary. "No gang talk in here. I don't want to hear it."

He tried to hold them close but they both pushed him away, seeing it as a sign of weakness.

"I don't know what you think Nicky is involved with but she was here all night. Both of them were."

I snorted. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah," said Nicky. "I was here all night." She grinned. "Big happy family. How's your family doing?"

I took her mobile from my pocket. "Not as fucked as your family is about to be. You're coming with us."

There wasn't an ounce of fear or regret in her eyes, only coldness. She knew what was on the phone and she knew I'd seen it but she didn't care. Nothing touched her. Nothing.

"I ain't afraid, bitch. Feel me?"

There was no way she was going to walk out that door. I hit her again, shouting and screaming at her, dragging her onto her feet and across the living room. Gary lunged at me, and so did Clarence. Dylan swung the wrench. Gary went down, twitching and rolling on the floor, groaning in pain. Clarence yelled at us, spewing hate and threats.

Nicky planted a kick at my shin and rammed an elbow into my gut. She got loose of my grip, almost, but I yanked her back, tugging at her hair. She flashed a punch, one of her rings scraping my chin. Gary was on his feet and Dylan hit him again with the tyre wrench and the guy crashed into a spindly-looking Christmas tree, toppling it and scattering a couple of wrapped presents.

Clarence was suddenly crying and Nicky screamed at him. I punched and slapped her. She kicked back, scratched, spat and yelled, but I kept beating on her and bundled her from the flat.

I laid a fearsome punch to her head and she went limp.

"What the fuck are you going to do with her?" said Dylan, panting.

We dragged her down to the lobby. I was drenched with sweat by the time we got outside. My skin tingled in the cold air.

There was no one around.

"Open the boot," I said.

"Are you serious?"

"Open the _fucking_ boot."

We drove for a while. I smoked two cigarettes. Dylan kept his speed low but Nicky still bounced around. She banged and yelled. I didn't give a shit. Then she went silent. We stopped for petrol about ten minutes later. I offered Dylan half the money but he waved it away.

I opened the boot whilst he paid, stepping back as Nicky climbed out. She had cuts on her face and dried blood round her mouth. I still didn't give a shit. She stared at me with a look of hate but her mouth was shut. I put her in the back of the car and slid in beside her.

We zipped out of the petrol station. The sky began to lighten. London was taking shape once more.

"I was part of your gang once," I said. "I was Billy Ingram's girl."

She kissed her teeth at me.

"Why did you attack the off-licence? Was that a message for me?"

She shrugged. "Paki got what he deserved, know what I'm saying? Like you're gonna get it. We're gonna get you... _Kina._ "

"I lived on the Hoppings for years," I said, lighting a cigarette. "I did all what the gangsters told me. Like you do. Did Scarface give the order to burn me out?"

Nicky gave me a bored look. "Why are you telling me this shit? I don't fucking care. You think you can bond with me? Like sisters? Show me a different way? That I can get out of the gang and be like you?"

She kissed her teeth once more. I smacked her in the mouth.

"No, I don't. I don't think you can be helped."

She rubbed her jaw. "My boys got my back. We all got each other's back, you know what I mean? I leave and that means any fool can tap my pussy. Smoke and Bounce take care of me."

"Smoke and Bounce got lifted."

"Ain't nothing gonna stick. No one gonna speak against us, you know what I mean?"

"Nicky, I don't care if you stay in the gang or get out. I don't care if you end up inside and get shanked. I don't give a shit about you. I got your phone and we know what's on it."

"So? I don't care."

"Who was she?"

"Some bitch, I don't know." She laughed. "Why? You wanna know what it was like?"

I jabbed her again. Her head rocked. "How could you have done that?" I said.

She glared at me. "Better that bitch than me, yeah? You know what I mean? She fucking loved it."

Dylan looked in the rear-view mirror. "Did you stab Simon?"

"That pussy? I don't know. Maybe he stabbed himself." She laughed. "Yeah, suicide."

"Did you kill him?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah, of course I did. Like I'm gonna confess to you that I did it. No, I didn't do it."

"Then who did? Who killed Simon?"

"It got done. That's all that matters, bitch." She frowned, suddenly. "Why are we slowing down? Oh, shit..."

She made a grab for the door. I caught hold of her, climbed out onto the pavement, dragging her after me.

DS Corrigan was leaning against a parked car.

"What the fuck do you want?" Nicky shouted at her.

I handed her over. Corrigan pinned her against the car, cuffed her. "Nicky Lopez, I'm arresting you on suspicion of arson, robbery and assault. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence..."

THIRTY TWO

I needed clothes.

The market was bustling, hundreds of shoppers, reams of tinsel draped over stalls, a Salvation Army brass band playing _Silent Night_.

Abi wore a leather jacket, beanie hat and scarf, blue jeans and knee-high boots. Her arm was hooked through mine. I took comfort in her. Losing the flat, losing what few possessions I owned had hurt more than I'd anticipated. I had no idea how Mr Bhola was coping. I hadn't seen him since the day he was placed in the ambulance.

The week had flown by. It was looking promising for Olivia since the witness had withdrawn her statement. Bailey and Macklin were rushing round trying to dig up new evidence but nothing was forthcoming. That's because there was nothing to find. _Arseholes!_ Our solicitor was demanding the case be thrown out; all they had was the knife. It was Christmas next week. Everyone was praying Olivia would be out in time to be with her family.

I'd heard from Corrigan. The teenagers who'd robbed the off-license and beaten Mr Bhola had been charged and remanded due to previous convictions. Nicky had been offered a deal for information on unrelated crimes - she'd rejected it, wanting to play the tough girl.

"Are you doing her for the arson?" I asked.

"We've plenty linking her to that. And her uncle, Gary, is unwilling to provide an alibi."

The girl was hurtling toward a prison sentence that would haunt her forever. She had no idea what was coming and what was coming wasn't pretty.

" _Better that bitch than me, yeah? You know what I mean?"_

"Let's try in here," said Abi. She guided me into a packed charity shop. There were rails of clothes.

"I need trousers and a shirt," I said. "Black, naturally."

" _Then who did? Who killed Simon?"_

" _It got done. That's all that matters, bitch."_

Abi began flicking through the hanging garments. "When is it?" she asked.

"Tomorrow, round ten."

She pulled out a pair of black jeans. I shook my head. "Do you want me to come?" she asked.

"No."

"OK."

She held up a black shirt with black buttons. "Yeah, good," I said. She grabbed a pair of black trousers. "What about these?" I nodded. "You go and pay," she said. "I want to look at a few things without you."

I smiled, draped the clothes over one arm and headed for a short queue snaking back from the till. I glanced at Abi and noticed the only thing she was looking at was her phone.

The woman behind the till was huge and covered in spots. She smiled at me as she folded the clothes, making small talk about Christmas. I was only half-listening. My attention was on Abi. She'd gone outside, phone pressed to her ear, looking round at the crowds.

I didn't like it. I paid, hurriedly, grabbed my bag and rushed to the door. She saw me out the corner of her eye. Guilt flashed across her eyes and she switched off the phone, nervously dropping it into her bag.

"All done?" she said.

I didn't get a chance to answer. A booming voice caught my attention. Instinctively, I turned and recognised a familiar face in the crowd. It was Liam, the black security guard from the wholesalers where I'd cleaned for Fast Genie. He had on the same navy blue puffa jacket he'd worn on the train. He was talking at a mobile phone stall as he picked through a selection of cases.

"Who's that?" said Abi, glad of the diversion.

"Liam." I lowered my voice. "His wife is in Downview, the same place as Olivia."

He held up one case and leaned to his left, as if he was showing it to someone, but it was too crowded to see who he was talking to. He nodded at the guy behind the stall, took out his wallet and fished out a note. He turned from the stall with a big smile. At once I saw he wasn't alone. A young woman was hanging onto his left arm. She had jet black hair, light brown skin. She wore leggings, boots and a coat. Her legs were painfully skinny.

"That's his wife. She must be out." I quickly explained to Abi how I'd met him on the train when visiting Olivia.

Liam saw us, we were impossible to miss. His wife tugged his arm, I caught that, and Liam's smile and step faltered for a second. I guessed she didn't really want to have to meet and greet anyone but there was no way of avoiding us.

"Alright, Kina," he said.

"Hey, Liam."

There was sudden awkwardness as no one spoke. The brass band moved onto a rendition of _Once In Royal David's City._

I studied his wife. Her cheekbones jutted, her eyes were haunted. "I'm Rita," she said. She had an incredibly deep voice.

"Sorry," said Liam. "Yeah, this is Rita, my missus." He glanced at Abi. "Liam," he said, extending his hand. "Abi," she replied, her hand disappearing inside his big grip.

"How's work?" I asked.

"Yeah, not so good. Cutbacks. I got let go."

"Shit," I said. "Sorry to hear to that."

It got strained again, for a few seconds, but then Liam made a throwaway comment about Christmas and the tension evaporated. We all dropped into small-talk, all except Rita. I saw her knuckles tighten as she held onto her husband. She knew I wanted to talk to her.

"I don't want to talk to you," she said. Abi and Liam fell silent. I met her eyes. "I just want to ask about my sister. She's still on remand."

Rita glanced at Liam, looking for help. "Kina, Rita only just got out. It was bad this time. She doesn't want to..."

"I got out this year," I said, directly at Rita. "I was in for eleven years. I know how hard it is."

"Then you know I want to be left alone." She had a fearsome voice, pure East End, no trace of an Indian accent.

But I wasn't letting go. "Olivia King," I said. "She's white, blonde hair, placed in the juvenile unit. I just want to know if she's OK."

Abi didn't know where to look. Liam watched his wife, concern in his eyes. People pushed by us. Stallholders bellowed.

"I wasn't in her unit. But she's with a small group. I think she's OK. She wasn't at first."

I nodded. We said our goodbyes.

"That was difficult," said Abi.

"Yeah."

I swallowed hard, nausea sweeping through me. We drifted on through the crowd.

"Who were you...?" I began, but she cut me off. "Kina, look."

A huge row was kicking off between a young couple. The guy was yelling and the woman was screeching back at him. A stallholder tried to calm them down and the guy roared at him even louder. Their voices could be heard all through the market. Mums urged their children in the opposite direction or hastily steered them into the nearest shop. No one wanted to get involved. I couldn't blame them. I half-watched like everyone else. The couple were still at it when I guided Abi away from the stalls and into a coffee house.

"People like that just want to be heard," she said.

We ordered. I got a latte, nothing to eat. Abi had a chocolate-chip muffin and a hot chocolate.

"Do you want half of this?"

"No."

"I can get you one."

"I can buy my own."

"Kina, what's wrong? Was it upsetting hearing about Olivia?"

I flattened my palms on the table. The place was crowded, noisy, Christmas songs playing. I leaned forward.

"Who was on the phone?"

She didn't answer at first. Her eyes flickered with emotion, lasting no more than a split-second at a time; guilt, realisation, defiance.

"Please don't start this again. It was just a call. I didn't think you were a jealous person."

"I'm not."

"Then why are you questioning me?"

"I'm no fool."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly that. I trust my gut. Why did you go outside?"

"Because it was noisy in the shop. Does it matter?"

"It was even noisier in the market."

She half-laughed, bit into her muffin. "Are you being serious?"

"Yeah, I am. I saw the look on your face. You went outside because you wanted to keep something from me. Jacky, right?"

She dug into her bag and plucked out her phone. "No, but you can check if you don't trust me."

The phone hung between us. I guessed a thousand or more relationships had hit this point at one time or the other. Long term, short term, whatever. One touch from my hand and our fledgling time together was over. It was as simple as that. The phone wasn't a phone it was a question; _do you trust me?_ If I took it then it meant I didn't and that was that. It was a good defensive move; Abi knew there was no way on earth I was going to check her phone. Besides, I knew it was Jacky she'd been talking to and there was a chance she was in the market as well.

I sat back, lifted my cup, and glanced out at the crowds. "I'll try and sort a place this afternoon. I still haven't heard anything from the council."

"I want you to stay with me." Her eyes watered. "It's over between Jacky and me. It has been for... it's over."

"You were together more than a week, right?"

She stirred her hot chocolate, nodding. "A year."

"So you're just filling in with me until you run back to her, yeah?"

A flash of anger behind her glasses. "No, that's not it. I'm not on the rebound. You know how I feel about you. Why do you think I employed you?"

"You tell me."

"I knew the moment you walked in I was giving you that job, Kina, criminal record or not."

Her voice had grown. A couple of women looked in our direction, began muttering.

"I was worried I was using you," I said. "I never once stopped to think you might be using me."

"I'm not using you, I swear it."

"I've got things to do," I said, picking up my coat and bag.

"Kina, please..." She grabbed my arm as I tried to leave. "Let me come with you to Simon's funeral. I want to be there for you."

I looked at her. "It isn't Simon's funeral I'm going to."

THIRTY THREE

The sky was overcast, clouds scudding in the wind. The cemetery was damp and cold, mostly deserted.

Black trousers, black shirt, black leather jacket, I lingered at a respectful distance, mobile switched off, hands thrust into my pockets. Only a handful of mourners had turned out for the funeral of Danny Renshaw. The neighbourhood gun dealer would have known a lot of people but it was unlikely any were going to turn up here.

DS Macklin had drawn the short straw and been placed on surveillance, a typical cop move when a criminal went into the dirt. Casually-dressed, mobile in hand, she lurked in the trees that lined one side of the cemetery, rows of terraced houses beyond. It was a waste of her time. None of the people here looked part of the underworld. She was getting plenty of shots of me, I reckoned. But I didn't care about that. There was another woman here who was far more important than me.

She was the woman from Nicky Lopez's phone and the woman Olivia had seen on Simon's phone. Her hair was no longer blonde, like in the gut-wrenching footage I'd watched through. It was now at its original colour, an uninspiring brown, with flecks of grey at the temples. She'd cut it as well, hacked at it, in truth.

Five-feet two inches, she was thick-limbed. I guessed she was in her forties. Her plain face was without emotion. She'd known this day was coming for Danny. It had always been a matter of _when_ and not _if_ because of his criminal dealings.

She carried a closed umbrella and a black handbag and wore a rain jacket. I picked my way across the lawns, taking my time. She had her moment at his graveside, her head dipped, lips moving, possibly a prayer or a simple goodbye.

She turned away from his grave, face still expressionless. She spoke to no one and began to follow the path back toward the cemetery gates. I went after her. I didn't try to hide it. She was a fast walker for someone with such short legs.

Birds chirped in the trees, their song beautiful, but I couldn't look at them. I didn't want to take my eyes off her, not for one second.

Shoes echoing, she stopped abruptly to light a cigarette, cupping her hand round the flame as the wind blew leaves in her direction.

She turned to face me. "Go away," she said, stabbing the cigarette at me. "Stop following me."

"I'm no cop," I said.

"I don't care what you are, love. You just keep away from me."

Her voice was enough to scare most people away. Ferocious anger flared in her tiny grey eyes.

But I wasn't going anywhere. "You're Danny Renshaw's sister, right?"

She didn't answer, started walking. I dropped in step with her. She glanced at me, clearly frustrated I was still around.

"I'm Kina McKevie," I said. "Olivia King is my sister."

"I don't care who you are."

"I just want to talk to you."

"Well, I don't know you and I don't want to talk to you."

I reached for her arm. It was instinctive, nothing more. I should've realised how she would react.

"Please, I need..."

"Take your hand off me," she hissed, backing away, looking round, terror in her eyes. I held up my hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know what they did to you. But my sister is on remand for killing Simon Farley. You remember him, don't you?"

She stared, saying nothing.

"I'm Kina," I repeated. "Olivia is my half-sister. He would've mentioned Olivia. He loved her very much."

I waited.

She raised the cigarette to her unpainted lips, dragged hard.

"I'm Andrea."

"Can we talk?"

"What for?"

"I told you, I know what happened back in August."

She snarled at me. "Fuck off."

I went after her.

"Andrea, please talk to me."

"I've got nothing to say."

I had no idea if Macklin was still about, taking pictures. I didn't care. We passed grave after grave, flowers and cards and gifts.

"Danny left a sympathy card and a teddy bear for Simon, right on the spot he was stabbed. A teddy bear with a red sweater. It looked old. "

Andrea stopped, shook her head, muttering. She whirled round, cigarette clamped in a hand that trembled.

"You know what they did?" she said. "You don't have a clue what they did."

"I..."

"They left me alive, that's what they did. I live with it every second. I hear them, see them... feel them. I can never forget. Never. My life is living with it. Nothing else. Don't tell me you know what they did. You know fucking nothing."

She shook out a tissue, dabbed her eyes.

"It wasn't a random attack," I said. "Nicky Lopez was in Boxes that night. She was following you, recording everything you did, everyone you spoke to; even when you met Simon and got chatting with him. She even filmed you both having a dance. They were on you from the moment you got in there. They targeted you, Andrea. And then they killed Simon and shot your brother."

I'd known a lot of fear with Billy. I saw that same fear in her grey eyes. I'd got rid of my demon. She never would.

"I gave him that teddy bear when he was six. He couldn't sleep; bad dreams. It helped him. I didn't know he still had it."

She looked round the cemetery, spotted a bench, pointed. We sat, saying nothing for a moment.

We smoked, still the silence. I wasn't a patient kind of woman but I knew it was time to listen, not talk.

Andrea blew out smoke, nodded in the direction of her brother's grave. "I knew he would end up dead soon enough, doing the thing he did."

I waited.

"Scarface told Danny what they did to me was a warning," she said. "Danny had a new supplier but a lot of the guns kept jamming. Scarface was pissed at him. He was being made a fool of."

"A punishment attack," I said, thinking of the beatings and kneecappings that went on back home in Belfast; the gangsters sending out a message.

"Scarface raped me twice." She blew out a hard stream of smoke. "Two of his boys raped me as well. They threw me in the bushes when they finished. They walked off, laughing... left me bleeding and crying... and that girl... that fucking girl, Nicky... she was the one who conned me."

"You were outside the takeaway with Simon when she approached you," I said, having viewed all the separate bits of footage.

Andrea nodded. We lit fresh cigarettes "She was so convincing. Said her mum was drunk again and had fallen down, twisted her ankle, you know. She told me they lived round the corner and like an idiot I fell for it and went and helped her. Well, you said you've seen it..."

" _Simon, help me... help me..." screamed Andrea._

The gang laughed. Smoke pulled out his machete. "Yeah, go on Simon, help her."

" _Just leave her alone," shouted Simon._

Bounce got in his face. "What the fuck are you going to do, prick? Fuck off, she's ours..."

" _Don't do this," said Simon._

" _Please, Simon," pleaded Andrea. Nicky slapped her, tearing open her lip, spilling blood._

The gang cheered, laughed even harder. Scarface wandered over to Simon.

" _Do you know who I am? What are you going to do? Go home, little man."_

"Three months went by," said Andrea. "I don't remember a day of it. I couldn't tell you what I did, nothing. I never reported it." She looked at me. "You don't report it, do you?" Her eyes bore into me, stripping away every defence I had. She could see right through me. "Do you?"

"You let the badmen do what they want," I whispered.

She nodded.

"Danny phoned me," she said. "He told me they'd killed Simon."

"But why? You hadn't reported it and Simon wasn't going to do anything about it."

"It was Danny. He caused all this. He pressured Simon. For months he followed him, turning up where he worked, trying to convince him to come forward." Andrea shook her head. "Simon was scared. He was a witness... a witness to a... he had a choice that night and he chose to walk away. He had to live with the guilt of what he didn't do to help me."

A robin swooped, landed on a headstone. It hopped back and forth, chirping, and then pitched into the sky.

"Danny sent him a phone." _The second phone, I thought._ "He'd loaded pictures of me on it. Me at the zoo or the seaside or having dinner with friends. He got them off my Facebook account. He wanted to show Simon the woman I'd been before..."

"Olivia saw the pictures," I said. "She thought Simon was having an affair."

Andrea laughed, brittle and unnerving. "I wish it had been that. You know, I asked Simon to come back to my flat that night. I'd never seen him in Boxes before. Not the usual bloke who ends up in there. Place is a meat market." She shrugged. "I have two marriages behind me. He was different; funny and handsome and clever, very clever. I was able to talk to him, have a proper conversation. It wasn't just about getting into my knickers like most blokes. He was a bit lonely, that's all. He told me he'd missed out on an award that night and that his best friend was going to start a relationship with the mother of his boy."

I nodded.

"But the thing he talked about the most was his girl, Olivia. He said he would never cheat on her. He loved her. I knew he wasn't going home with me but I didn't care. Been a long time since a man spoke to me like he did. I told him about Danny and how much I loved him. I told him I worried about Danny a lot but I never mentioned the guns."

"And then he walked you out?"

"He bought me a kebab. He was going to get a cab for me when that cunt Nicky showed up with her sob story."

"The cops have her." Andrea went pale. "No, not for this." I told her about the off-licence attack and the arson that had followed.

"It's what they do," she said.

An elderly man carrying a fresh bunch of flowers went by, walking a small dog on a lead.

He tipped his cap at us.

"Do you have any other family?" I asked.

"No, it was just the two of us." Leaves rustled in the wind. The sky was growing dark despite it being only mid-morning. "Christmas next week. We always had good ones me and Danny. Too much food, drink and TV. No more now." She held back the tears. "I know all about you, Kina. The newspaper ran a story when Simon was killed. You were with that gang years ago. They said you were a founding member."

I swallowed hard. "I have to live with that," I said, quietly.

"Were you Nicky Lopez? Back then, I mean."

"No." I shuddered. "No." My eyes searched the ground. "No, I don't think so. I never did what she did. I never would have."

"But what if your man had told you to?"

Silence.

"You killed him, didn't you?"

Silence.

"Stabbed him, shot him... lucky you, I wish I had the guts to do that to Scarface. Danny wanted to shoot him. I told him I didn't want my brother in prison because of an animal like him."

Her gloved hands clasped her thighs, squeezed.

"I used to hate Simon. I probably still do. He ran away, left me with them. I'm sorry your sister got the blame. I know she didn't kill him."

"I still don't understand why Scarface did."

"Because Danny persuaded him to step up and be a man," she snapped. "Only it was too late."

I looked at her. "What?"

"Scarface found out what he was doing. I don't know how. Simon was planning on going to the cops. But Scarface told Danny to phone Simon, get him at Pelham Grove to be executed."

"The call," I said. "It was Danny who put Simon on the street that night. That was why he took the knife."

Andrea nodded.

"He thought he was meeting Danny to discuss going to the police together. When it was done, Scarface put his arm round Danny and told him things would be OK but it was a lie because they came back and murdered him in the end. Maybe I'll be next. I don't think I care."

"So Scarface was with Danny pulling all the strings that night," I said. "That means he couldn't have killed Simon."

Andrea shook her head. "No, he sent someone to do it. That's how he works. He has his soldiers and he has plenty of people who owe him. He uses people from outside the gang, creates a distance between himself and a prison cell and still claims the kill for _HE-7_. It went wrong, though."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The gun that was supposed to kill Simon jammed. There was a struggle. Simon tried to defend himself. That's how he got stabbed with his own knife."

"Did Danny know who they sent after Simon that night?"

"No."

I took the phone from my pocket. "This belongs to Nicky Lopez. It's all on here. It's not too late. You could..."

She got up. She wouldn't touch it. "Stamp on it, burn it... I'll never relive what they did to me in any court."

THIRTY FOUR

The room stank.

I threw back the curtains, opened the window, brushed down a beige-coloured sofa and stretched out.

Staring at the ceiling, cigarette in hand, I dug out my notebook. It was packed with scribbled notes. I read through them, one page at a time; the interviews I'd conducted, evidence I'd uncovered. Ash crumbled onto my shirt. I sat up, found up an ashtray, set the notebook down. I had the motive for Simon's murder but not the killer. If Scarface hadn't used one of his soldiers then he'd used someone from the estate with a big debt that needed paying.

" _You don't want to owe a man like Dominic Johnson. I work with vulnerable adults in this area. The stories I could tell you..."_

It was time Jade stated telling stories. I took out my mobile. Middle of the day, she was probably with a client or in the office. I called anyway. I wasn't surprised it went straight to voicemail. I told her it was urgent.

Biting my nails, dragging on my cigarette, I stared, in a daze, thinking, no longer hearing the music that vibrated through the floorboards. Dylan had told me I could crash here until the council sorted me out a place to live. I'd had one run-in with them already. They'd found me a flat – on the Hoppings estate of all places. I told the guy I was talking to that I couldn't live there. He said I was homeless and couldn't refuse a place. Through gritted teeth I asked him to look at my account more closely and that it was part of my parole that I wasn't allowed near the estate. It was a lie but I doubted he'd check. It was _advisory_ that if I returned to Stratford I avoided the Hoppings and the criminals I'd associated with – not that many of them were around. The guy at the council finally understood the point I was making and told me he would be in touch. I still hadn't heard from him. He did give me details of a hostel I could go to. I didn't even bother writing down the address.

I was thinking of Abi when there was a soft knock at the door.

"Kina?"

It was Tayla.

"Open," I said.

She hung in the doorway, smiling brightly, clutching a carrier bag. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"No," I said, grinding out my cigarette.

"Great, I didn't fancy eating on my own. Dylan said it would be OK to come and hassle you."

She closed the door, dropped onto the sofa beside me, braided hair swinging. She still wore her _RECLAIM_ T-shirt but her jeans were bright green today and just as tight as the purple ones she'd worn the first time I'd met her.

She offered me a choice of pre-packed sandwiches. "Ham and cheese. Or turkey and stuffing?"

"I didn't know you'd bought _me_ lunch."

"What are you going to do? Sit and watch me eat?" She laughed.

"Turkey is fine." I tore open the packing. It was the closest I'd come to a Christmas dinner this year. "Thank you," I said, quietly.

She dug out crisps, cans of low-calorie drink and a twin-pack of chocolate éclairs with fresh cream.

"It's Friday," she said, nudging me. "I'm at the gym twice a week and I swim as well. I can indulge on a Friday."

"I haven't been swimming in years," I said, biting into the sandwich.

"You should come with me," she said, cracking open a can and sipping.

I chewed, saying nothing, thinking of her gliding through the water. She was too young for me.

"Is something wrong?" asked Tayla.

She was smart. She didn't miss a thing.

"Rough morning. I was at a funeral."

Her expression turned solemn. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's OK."

"Was it someone close?"

I waved away her question. "Why have you bought me lunch, Tayla?"

"I just thought it would be..."

"Get to the point."

She put down her drink and sandwich, turned on the sofa. "I thought I recognised your name when you came in last week. I went online and read up about you. I know you're an ex-gang member and that you served time. I want you to come to a _Reclaim_ meeting tonight."

I stopped mid-bite. "No."

"Hear me out," she said, hands animated.

"No." I put down the sandwich, shaking my head. I reached for my cigarettes, stood up and lit one.

Her forehead creased in thought as she plotted how to approach me. She was a girl who got what she wanted through hard graft. I was a new proposition for her. I was a brick wall. I hung beside the window, watching the hectic street below. I glanced back at her, dragged on my cigarette.

"Why do you want me there?" I asked.

"This is would only be an informal chat with the founders of _Reclaim._ Six people at the most. We want to know if you would be interested in coming to one of our full meetings. We have hundreds of supporters, Kina, community leaders, local journalists, bloggers. We have a voice. Last month we even persuaded our MP to attend. We have to be heard."

"I was part of the problem." I blew out smoke. "Do you know what I went to prison for?"

"I know," she said. A car horn blasted outside. "But that was the past, Kina. You can be a role-model for a future generation. You can guide the young ones and warn them what life in a gang is really all about. It isn't what they see in the videos on MTV."

"It can be horrific," I said, thinking of Andrea Renshaw and Nicky Lopez. "But not all the time. That's what people on the outside can never understand."

"Come and eat with me," she said. "Please. I want to listen to you."

I couldn't help but smile. She was a very determined young woman. I stubbed out my cigarette, sat down beside her.

"I'm happy to talk to you but I'm not going to any meeting."

She'd already won the first round with me. The girl was good.

* * *

I checked my phone. Nothing from Jade.

I had no more moves to play. The footage on the Lopez mobile was a heavy burden. Andrea was never going on the witness stand.

Mum rang from the home line but I didn't answer. There wasn't enough room in my head for her ranting. I was alone. I got into hard work. It was the best way to past the afternoon and I couldn't think straight in the mess. Dylan had warned me the place had been used for storage over the past few years. He wasn't wrong.

Working in a white vest top, arms still bruised, I went into the bedroom. There was a broken bed frame and a wardrobe with a busted door and warped backing board. I carried them out into the back yard and stacked them beside the bins. I'd let Dylan decide how he was going to dispose of them. With the bedroom empty, I got a bucket of warm water and bleach and scrubbed the room from top to bottom. I threw open the window. A cold wind blew through.

I went into the living room, had a smoke, and then began shifting boxes of vinyl that were scattered all around. I stacked them in the bedroom, neat and tidy, not a box out of line.

Mum rang a second time. I ignored it. Text messages arrived from Abi. I didn't read them.

Bagging up rubbish, I was again down at the bins, arms and face glistening with sweat.

I ate the chocolate éclair Tayla had bought me, made a cup of tea and lit another cigarette.

Then it was back to work, clearing plastic crates filled with assorted cassette tapes and narrow cardboard boxes of CDs. Everything went into the bedroom. The smell of bleach had gone. I closed the window, took down the curtains, bundled them into a sack for washing.

It was black outside, a slow roll of traffic below, the horizon marked by a thousand lights.

Mum rang for a third time. I relented and answered. "What?"

"Kina."

I gulped. "Olivia? You're at... when did you get out?"

"This morning. Mum tried phoning you but she kept getting voicemail."

Suddenly Mum came onto the line. I heard Olivia protest. I didn't allow her to get a word in.

"If she got out this morning you must have known about this yesterday. Why the fuck didn't you...?"

The line went dead. I sat down on the sofa, staring round the living room, the noise of traffic outside, the noise of music below.

I rubbed my hands together.

Was it over? Had I done it?

Only I hadn't done anything. The dodgy witness hadn't pulled out because of me. I'd linked Simon with Renshaw but I still didn't know who Scarface had sent to kill him. I toyed with the idea of confronting Scarface, threatening him to give up the killer in exchange for the mobile phone footage of the gang-rape - but no matter how I played out that scenario in my head it always ended messy.

There was another knock at the door. This time it was Dylan. He opened his eyes wide.

"Is this the same place?"

He stalked into the bedroom. A smile broke out across his face. "You're something else, Kina. Man, you can stay if you like."

He offered his fist. I bumped him.

"I don't like mess," I said.

"Tonight I'm buying you dinner. You hear me? No excuses."

"I can't, I'm going to the _Reclaim_ meeting with Tayla."

"That girl is like a rottweiler. You know she's got a boyfriend, right?"

"Why should that bother me?"

"Well, you know..." He left it hanging, scratched his bald head. "Man, thanks for cleaning up the place. I meant it about you staying on. We can chat about rent. I won't charge much. I can even throw a few hours work your way if you're interested."

"I'm interested," I replied.

My phone buzzed. A message from Jade.

"I'm think my night just got double-booked."

THIRTY FIVE

Shutters were coming down on the high street.

I walked from the record shop to the community centre, the narrow and rain-slick pavement thronged with hundreds of people, most of them spilling out from the train station. I reached a zebra crossing, waited, all bunched up, far too close for my liking. Traffic zipped by, rain visible in gleaming headlights. The lights changed, after what seemed an eternity, and the crowd propelled me across the road.

I wasn't prepared to talk at the meeting, informal or otherwise. I'd made that clear to Tayla. There was no way I was chatting about my past with a group of strangers, not even with the bribery of lunch. She'd laughed at that, lips drawing back over shiny teeth. She had a dry laugh, cute and infectious. I explained to her I'd done sessions of that kind in prison and, though they were helpful, it was painful at the time, hellish to admit the demon you'd become.

"No one wants to see a monster when they look in the mirror," I told her. "Least no one with a bit of something decent left buried inside."

"You won't need to talk, Kina. This is just prep. The main meeting is next week. Tonight, there'll be about six of us. Maybe a few more. I want you there."

I liked her and I knew how important it was to her. Sure, I liked her in that way and had pictured her underwear tangled on the floor several times but she was too straight and too young for me. I didn't have many people I could connect with. I'd lost Abi. I hadn't even known her that long and already she was gone.

Tayla was a breath of fresh air with an intelligent thirst I'd never had at her age. At her age, I'd been fighting, stealing and taking drugs. I was humbled by her drive and forthright views. Her direction was focused on making her community a better place. I'd spent my youth destroying it from the inside.

"We've been forgotten," she'd told me. "The people with power look outward, no longer inward, Kina. We have to the fight the fight and make people remember that we count."

The community centre was a flat-roofed building, old and stained brickwork, lights glowing behind grilled and frosted windows. A small group of men and women were gathered in a sheltered corner of the car park, smoking. I could hear the low drone of conversation. I was itching for a cigarette but I didn't want to stand with them. I found the front door and walked into a long hallway that echoed with voices from function rooms hosting various clubs and meetings. The overhead lights were incredibly bright, like I was already under the spotlight.

Tayla had given me directions to the room _Reclaim_ was using. I took my time, an uneasy feeling swirling in my stomach. She was waiting for me, hanging in the next corridor; rocking on her heels, drumming her fingers against her thighs, away in her own world, a typical teenager. I hesitated. She hadn't noticed me yet. It wasn't too late for me to get out of her. Then her head tilted and her face lit up and she rushed toward me. She clasped my hands, sandwiching them between her warm palms.

I narrowed my eyes. "What is it?"

"Nothing, I'm just so pleased you came."

"Tayla...?"

"It was a big step for you."

She was still holding my hands. She was clearly up to something.

"I wanted you here tonight because I think you have a unique insight..."

I was enjoying the handholding but I cut her off. "No more bullshit."

She took a deep breath. "My aunt is here tonight." I didn't know who her aunt was or why that should matter. "She was one of the founders of _Reclaim."_ OK, that made sense. "She brought a friend with her. This friend is like you, Kina." Right, here we go. "She was mixed up with gangs in her youth. She's spent time in prison. She knew you were going to be here tonight. It's what made her come."

My mouth dried. "Who is she?"

"She really wants to talk to you."

"Give me her name, Tayla."

"Please don't walk away, Kina."

I waited.

"Her name is Yvonne Desumi."

I snatched back my hands, tried to choke out a few words but ending up coughing.

"I know what you did to her, Kina. I also know what she did to _you_." Gingerly, she touched my arm. "I know you've both suffered. Together, you can show how we can heal as a community and prepare for..."

I rounded on her. "You don't know anything about suffering, Tayla."

She wasn't afraid of me. Good for her. "I live in a community that is suffering. Do you think you need to join a gang or go to prison or take drugs to feel that pain? I see it every single day and no one lifts a finger to change things. Taxes are paid and that is all that matters. Forest Gate has been betrayed. _We..._ we have been betrayed."

I took a moment, allowing her strong words to sink in. "Is she in there now?"

She reached for the door handle. I grabbed her wrist. "Don't hide shit like this from me, you get me? It isn't how things work with me."

"I understand," she said. "I'm sorry."

I released my grip.

"Open it," I said.

There were six people in that room. Even now, thinking back, I still can't picture a single one of them; except Yvonne.

She was a year younger than me, shorter than I remembered. She was carrying a lot more weight than when we'd shared a wing in Holloway. She stayed in her seat when I came in, unable to move or even say anything. I hung in the doorway, ready to turn and run, like I'd done all my life. Tayla was talking but her words blurred in my head.

I lifted my eyes toward Yvonne, taking in the lines on her plump face. I needed her to take off the dark glasses. I must have asked her, though I don't remember doing so, because she finally got up and slipped them off her nose. Her right eye watched me. Her left eye was a scarred mess.

"Show me," she said.

I hesitated, finally noticing the people around us; a black man in his sixties, an Asian man, younger looking, and three women, one of them white. They were perched on plastic chairs.

I lifted my shirt, revealing tattoos and a patch of scarred skin, the result of the screwdriver attack.

"You have other scars."

"Yeah," I said, releasing the hem of my shirt.

Tayla closed the door behind me. "Why don't we sit down?" she suggested.

* * *

Jade and her partner, Stephanie, rented a house in Plaistow. Her message had told me they were late-night shopping but I could drop round from eight onwards. It was past nine when I finally rang her doorbell.

"It's good to see you," said Jade, hugging me as I came through the door. "Come in, come in."

She put the chain on behind me, shutting out the cold and dark.

"Stephanie is taking a bath." I was glad. I didn't want to meet her. "Shopping was awful. It's just so busy everywhere. We're both so disorganised this year. Would you like a drink?"

"Sure," I said.

"Is wine OK?"

"Yeah."

"Are you OK, Kina?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm OK."

She fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen, watching me all the time, knowing I was far from OK. Jacket on, I loitered in the doorway of her living room. It was immaculate, stylish, filled with ornaments, prints on the wall, expensive looking furniture. There were hundreds of books and CDs and DVDs.

I allowed myself a smile.

"What's funny?"

"This is just how I pictured it in my head."

She handed me a glass. "You smell of bleach. Have you come straight from work?"

"I wish."

An electric fire with fake logs flickered beneath a decorative hearth. There were twinkling lights and glass ornaments of dogs dressed as Santa. A real Christmas tree towered in one corner, packed with lights, dangling ornaments and foil-wrapped chocolate. A few presents were underneath, gold-coloured paper and brown ribbon with glittery name tags ... _Jade to Stephanie, Stephanie to Jade._

My smile began to drain away.

"Sit down," said Jade. She dropped into a leather armchair with an exhausted sigh. She was wearing a tight white dress, sleeveless. "Take your jacket off, Kina, relax. What's wrong? What was so urgent?"

I cried, right there and then. I couldn't hold it in any longer. Tears punched from my eyes. Fuck, I couldn't stop them. It had gotten too much; getting out, coping with normal life, living day to day. Then there was Abi. Feelings had started to swell inside and all the time I was concerned about using her she'd been using me – I'd been her rebound girl, filling in the gaps whilst she'd sorted out her relationship with Jacky. And then the video, the sickening gang-rape of Andrea Renshaw and the knowledge that Scarface was still strutting round the Hoppings, the badman, carrying his piece – I really wanted to take that fucker down.

"Shit, shit, shit," I cursed, setting down my glass. "I'm OK. Seriously, I'm OK. Oh, don't look at me Jade."

I told her about the _Reclaim_ meeting and confronting a dark piece of my past. She'd never known Yvonne but vaguely recalled a story of a blinding in Holloway, years ago.

"Haunts me more than killing Billy," I said. "She has to live with it. Billy got off easy. I was trying, you know, I was getting straight, good behaviour, no drugs, then she got banged up on the same wing and that beef was still out there." I kissed my teeth. "Bitch stabbed me three times with a screwdriver. It had to happen. I couldn't show weakness or I would've been a target all over again."

She didn't say anything for a moment. "Wait here," she said, finally.

I was too upset to even appreciate her tight bum as she disappeared into another room and left me with the dancing flames and twinkling lights and photographs of her and her woman.

I'd waited eleven years to walk free but had never felt more in prison and alone at that moment.

And alone was a frightening place.

"No more tears," she said, breezing back into the room. Her voice was silky smooth, composed. "I want to show you something."

She was clutching a pale green box decorated with birds. It looked old. It _was_ old.

"You kept it."

"Of course I did," said Jade. "You gave it to me. You picked it because of the birds. You always liked them."

"I still do," I sniffed.

I thought about the burnt library books and told her about the arson attack. I told her I was waiting to hear from the council.

"What are you supposed to do in the meantime? Have they recommended a hostel? What about your mum and your stepdad?"

I held up a hand. "What's in the box?"

She took a sip of wine. I watched it slide over her lips. I wanted to kiss her but the photographs of her and Stephanie kept me pinned in my seat. I realised I could hear music, very faint, coming from upstairs.

"This might cheer you up," she said, prising off the lid. She took out a block of photographs. "Summer of Dance, 1998."

I wiped my eyes. "The festival. I thought I had these."

"You were off your face when you gave them to me."

Two smiling teenagers stared back at me. I held the photograph between finger and thumb, hand trembling.

"Look at us," I whispered.

I flicked though the rest of the photographs. "All those choices," I said. "You made the right ones. Why did I make all the wrong ones?"

She hesitated at the box, took a deep breath and lifted out a plain white envelope.

"What's that?"

"Choices. You said I didn't have faith in you, Kina. You're wrong. And I knew the way we felt about each other. I was afraid. I pushed you toward Billy. You didn't run to him. I hooked you two up, remember?"

There were two creased plane tickets inside. _Singles to Spain_. I frowned. "These are from 2005."

She sat forward, watching me closely.

"The date... it's the day I was arrested."

"I bought them the day before. I had a crazy idea. I wanted us to run away. Then you killed Billy. I took that as a sign to ignore what I felt. That's why I started dating Roland and tried to fit in, tried to be normal."

I wanted to tell her we could buy new tickets but then I heard a voice and Jade rushed to answer, explaining _they_ had a visitor.

She put the photographs and tickets back into the box. "Look at me now, all sensible. I just wanted you to know how much I loved you then. I still care about you now, Kina, I always will." She hadn't realised she was caressing the box as it sat in her lap. "I wanted to start a new life with you in Spain."

"You were willing to give up your life here for me?"

"Then I was," she said. "You do anything for the one you love."

"Yeah."

I frowned. Someone had said that to me recently. Things began to take shape in my head.

"Yeah, you do."

My frown deepened.

She picked up her glass. "Do you want a refill?"

"You do anything for the one you love," I repeated. " _Anything."_

It was her turn to frown. "Are you OK? What was so urgent?"

I was on my feet. "Nothing, I was going to ask you about... it doesn't matter. I just wanted to see you."

There was the creak of footsteps upstairs, the sound of a bath emptying.

"I hope you have a nice Christmas," I said, cuffing my eyes dry. "I'm glad you're happy."

And I meant it.

THIRTY SIX

I buzzed Dylan, told him I needed his help. I waited for him outside DT Records. The windows were grilled, the shop in darkness.

"You only do shit at night, right?"

"Are you free during the day?"

He kissed his teeth, laughing.

"I got an idea who might have owed Scarface enough to kill Simon. But I need to check something out first."

I got in, told him where we needed to go. We sped away, picking through late night traffic; weaving, accelerating, slowing down.

"Take that left," I said.

He nodded, flipped on the indicator. Slowing, he pulled onto the estate, driving past warehouses and units, most of them in darkness.

"What is this place?"

"I used to work here," I said.

We went past the parcel company. There were vans and trucks spread around open shutters. Thousands of orders were being processed. The place never stopped ticking over.

"There," I said.

He read the sign. Units 10-12. Lights showed behind grilled windows. I could see the Nigerian women on the ground floor, smiling as they cleaned. I pushed open the car door. The interior light blinked on.

"Do you want me with you?" asked Dylan.

"Not this time," I said.

I went up to the front door, rapped on the glass, waited. I didn't recognise the guy who appeared. He was white, light brown hair, a thick beard. He wore a stiff-white shirt, blue tie and blue trousers and a lanyard that read: SECURITY. He was holding a long black torch, switched off.

"Closed," he said. "Come back in the morning."

"I'm here to see Jenny."

"Name?"

"Kina McKevie."

He nodded, said nothing and disappeared from sight. I waited. Dylan watched me from the car. The door suddenly buzzed. I spun round. It wasn't Jenny; it was the guard whose name I could never remember, the black guy in his mid-sixties.

"Hello, Kina," he said, balancing the door with his hip. "Are you back working with us?"

"No, nothing like that. I just came to see Jenny."

"Come in, come in." I stepped into reception. It was warm. A radio was playing behind the desk. Fondly, my nose tingled with the smell of cleaning products. I hadn't realised how much I'd missed the place.

"Don't mind Ian. He's new, Liam's replacement." He shook his head. "That boy and his timekeeping."

"Thanks..." I left the sentence hanging.

He smiled. "It's Carl. I'd tell you all the time but you could never remember."

"I'm terrible with names, Carl. Sorry."

"That's OK." He arched his back, sighing. "It's getting worse," he said. "I need a more mobile job than this."

A door swung open and Jenny bustled through, followed by Ian, the white security guard. He screwed up his eyes at Carl, annoyed I'd been let in when he was dealing with the situation.

"They still haven't replaced you," said Jenny. I wasn't sure what mood she was in tonight. "We're having to do your work but not get any extra money for it." She gave me an awkward hug. That was her mood then. "It's nice seeing you, Kina, but I can't stop for long. I'm really up to my eyes in it at home. Did I tell you about Gareth? Were you still here then? He's been fighting in school. I don't need him playing up what with his dad and..."

She rattled on for a good ten minutes. I don't remember her asking me anything that she didn't answer for me.

"Well, I can't stand here all night. You take care, girl. Shame they let you go. You worked bloody hard."

Ian was behind the desk, checking the CCTV. He glared over at me. "That you done?"

"I just want a quick word with Carl."

He'd been leaning against the wall, half-listening to Jenny, unsure if he was part of the conversation or not. He straightened as he approached me. I beckoned for him to move away from the reception desk, out of earshot.

"It was you I came to see," I said. "But Jenny..."

"She was the only name you could remember." He laughed. I nodded. "What can I do for you? I must warn you, I have a wife at home."

I patted his arm. "Carl, do you remember the last night I worked here? I had to leave early."

"Oh, yes. Your brother-in-law was murdered, wasn't he?"

"They weren't married. But that night, yes."

"What about it? It was a shame Fast Genie sacked you. They had no right to do that."

"You and Liam Naylor were here that night, right?"

He nodded.

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

I left a few minutes later. I got in, lit a cigarette. Dylan started the engine. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I said.

"You're shaking."

I plucked out my notebook and pen and began to scribble on a fresh page. I didn't want to forget anything.

"Where now?" he asked. "Or can I go back to bed?"

"One more stop," I said. "The Hoppings... and Simon's killer."

* * *

The estate was crawling with dealers and groups of teenagers.

I should have known the Hoppings would draw me back in. _This misery-infested place of towers and walkways was stamped in my DNA._ I couldn't escape the past. I didn't know if there would be a future.

"You know what to do?" I said.

Dylan gripped the steering wheel, kissed his teeth. "I ain't happy."

"Just do it."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

I switched off the interior light, and then pushed open the car door. "Scarface's boys recognise you they're gonna mash you up."

I grinned. "I know this place better than any of them _pussies_."

Hood raised, head ducked, I shuffled onto the estate, avoiding no one but never getting close enough, either. My heart was thumping. Sweat dripped down my arms. I weaved away from the boys in hoods and gloves and baggy clothing, their voices loud and aggressive, cans and joints. This was the only way for them. After tonight things might change. I doubted it.

I slipped into a graffiti-covered lobby. My nose wrinkled at the smell of urine. I sprinted up flights of concrete steps, passing no one, hearing only the noise from the square down below.

I reached the sixth-floor landing and checked the number in my notebook; the number Carl had given me.

It was a simple door, painted dark green, like all the others. Winter flowers blew in an oblong-shaped window box. The kitchen light was on, blinds drawn. I tapped on the window, waited.

The blind shifted. Liam's face appeared, confused. He stared at me for a moment and then let the blind drop. The flat door filled with light. I saw his hulking frame take shape.

I glanced over the balcony. Dylan looked far away from here, sitting in darkness on the edge of the estate.

"Kina? What are you doing here?" He was in a robe, socks and slippers. The smell of coffee and toast was in the air. "It's late."

Rita appeared at the end of the passage, belting a robe. I glimpsed her bony frame, ravaged by addiction. Her eyes were bleary, hair a mess.

"I'm really sorry to come round this time of night. Can I come in? It's urgent."

"Sure," said Liam, concern loosening from his deep voice. "Come in, love, come in, I was just having coffee. Do you want one?"

The door closed behind me. He didn't lock it. I guessed he didn't need to. We both knew who would be coming soon.

"Sure, thanks."

"Grab a pew," he said, gesturing.

It was a small kitchen. There was a square-shaped table cluttered with paperwork. I saw a calculator and a list of numbers on an open notepad. Rita saw where my eyes were and swept it up in her hands, coming awake pretty fast. She dumped everything on a counter, out of sight. I sat down at the table, near the door, and Rita picked the chair beside the counter, blocking the view of the paperwork. It didn't take a lot of brains to work out they were in financial difficulty. I doubted Liam had earned much as a security guard and now he was out of work, right on top of Christmas, and his wife was out of prison with a habit still to feed.

Liam plonked down a cup and saucer. "Milk?" The wax carton hovered in his meaty grip. "No thanks," I said.

I spooned in sugar, stirred a few times. Rita yawned. There was the shape of a mobile in her pocket. She'd be making an excuse any moment now.

"Kina," said Liam, standing by the sink, coffee in hand. "It's lovely to see you again." He glanced at the wall clock. "But it's very late. What's wrong?"

"I wanted to ask you about Simon Farley. Do you remember telling me you'd seen him round a few times?"

Liam shrugged. "Now and then. Not often. I didn't know him to talk to. I mean, he wasn't a mate or nothing."

"I need the toilet," said Rita. She wafted past me, robe flashing. Her brown legs were skinny. Liam watched her go. Her bare feet squeaked across the lino floor. I sipped my coffee, thrust one hand in my pocket, and clicked _send_ on my phone.

"You'll have to excuse Rita," he said. "She's not been right since getting out. Her gut is rotten. Reckon she got a bug in there."

"You ever been inside?" I asked.

He took a moment to answer, his tone more even. "Once, when I was younger. I wouldn't recommend it."

"My sister got released. The cops have dropped the charge against her. The case is back open."

"A dead black man? Yeah, I'm sure the cops will rush to solve that one. Anyway, great news about your sister."

"But not for you, Liam. Carl confirmed it. You got picked up the night Simon was killed. I was outside having a smoke when they dropped you back a few hours later. You spotted us and told them to drive on, didn't you? You knew we wouldn't be there too long. How badly did you owe Scarface?"

Liam chuckled, licked his lips, shook his head and said nothing. I slowly got up from my chair. He folded his arms.

"I don't owe Scarface nothing," he said.

"Not now, anyway."

The toilet flushed. The door opened. "He's on his way," said Rita.

"Of course he is," I said, keeping my eyes on Liam. "Do you think killing Simon wiped the slate clean?" I kissed my teeth. "You're a damn fool."

I turned to Rita.

"The drugs, right? He hooked you in so deep you ran out of things to pawn and started thieving. Nowhere to turn inside, is there?"

"Something like that," said Liam. "He has a video. He showed it to me. What his gang did to this woman. He told me when Rita got out of prison she'd be gang-raped, like that woman was. I had no choice."

"Her name is Andrea Renshaw, Danny Renshaw's sister. The gun dealer who got shot. The guy who gave you a gun that misfired."

He licked his lips once more. "It got messy when the gun jammed. I didn't know what to do."

"Don't say anything," hissed Rita, glancing at the front door.

"Nah, it don't matter now. Kina gets the score, don't you, love? Your boy Simon pulled a blade on me. He kept telling me to leave him alone, that he was going to do the right thing after all this time. He wanted the guilt to go. And all the time he's jabbing this knife toward me." His voice lowered, eyes glazed. "He was shaking." Liam held out his hands. He took no pleasure in showing me. "Shaking like a leaf he was. I had to do it. I had to take it off him and do it. I didn't want to. I swear it. But I love my missus. Scarface made me choose between my Rita and this geezer. He lost out. It's just the way it is."

"Yeah, I know the way it is."

"Scarface wanted distance. He said the cops were all over him. He was struggling to get the paper in. His words."

"And you let him make you his bitch," I said.

There was a knock at the front door.

"Looks like two of us," he said. "Open it, Rita, love."

She did.

There was a babble of voices.

Heavy footsteps.

Rita edged back toward her bedroom. Scarface lunged into the kitchen, pointing a sawn-off shotgun.

THIRTY SEVEN

He backhanded me.

I slammed against the kitchen wall, tasting blood. He raised the shotgun, angled it toward my head.

"Don't even breathe, girl."

There were two men with him. Both were carrying automatics.

Rita was sobbing, tiny choking sobs. Liam called to her. "Babe, it's gonna be OK. This'll all be over soon."

"No, boy, it's not going to be over soon." Scarface nodded at his men. "See dem boys, Liam, they're going to rip her pussy open, you get me?"

Rita screamed as the men grabbed her. Liam stepped across the kitchen. The twin barrels of the shotgun swept away from me and pointed straight at him.

"We had a deal."

"You don't tell me what we had, boy. You do as you're fucking told."

"Liam," screamed Rita, "Liam, help me... help me, Liam."

He'd seen the video. He'd heard those words before. _Help me, Simon._ But he was frozen to the spot, not close enough to reach for the shotgun.

"Don't worry, girl," said Scarface, addressing me but with his eyes on Liam. "You won't be next. I heard Billy Ingram messed up your pussy long ago."

I wasn't listening to him. I was checking him out. I'd seen all I needed to see. I was half-crouched against the kitchen wall, blood trickling over my chin. I sprang forward, piled into him. I snatched the pistol tucked into his waistband and jammed the muzzle into the side of his head.

"Put it down, cunt," I shouted.

Liam didn't wait. He snatched the shotgun. Scarface shouted a warning to his men. I drove the gun deeper into his head.

"Get on your knees, prick."

He slowly lifted his arms. "Cool it, woman."

There were whistles outside. In the squares and on the landings. His crew. This was it, it was going down.

"Feds," he whispered. "You bitch."

There was a deafening boom. Rita screamed. A second boom followed. There were rapid footsteps on the landing.

"Caught you slipping, Scarface," I said, grinding the gun into his temple.

A voice blasted through a loud hailer. "Flat 231. Armed police. Put down your weapons..."

The cops knew there were innocents in here. They weren't going to start breaking down doors all at once.

"Get out there." I jabbed him with the pistol. He grinned at me. "You're not going to shoot me, bitch."

He grabbed the pistol, hit me once more. I crashed into the table, crockery spilling and smashing on the floor. I wiped the blood from my lips. The whistles were dying out as police vehicles streamed onto the estate. More words came over the loudhailer. I picked myself off the kitchen floor. Sirens wailed in the distance, a chopper circled overhead.

Lights poured down on the Hoppings.

I saw Billy. He was here. Right now. Taking what he wanted. Doing shit I'd let him get away with, encouraged him to do.

You cunt, Billy, you cunt...

Scarface kissed the pistol and put it down. He smoothed his clothes and grinned at me.

"You've been away too long, Kina."

Billy, Billy, Billy... look what you did to me? Look, you fucker...

"You don't know how it works."

I stared at the gun. I'd done it before. Killing a man had been easy. It would be even easier killing Scarface.

"We'll come for you soon enough." He strutted from the kitchen. "Believe that, girl."

The police loudhailer barked with instructions. I climbed off the floor, the pistol on the table.

Grab it quick before the fucker gets out there, shoot him down, shoot that fucker down...

I cuffed the blood from my mouth. "No," I whispered. I stepped into the kitchen doorway.

Scarface jerked open the flat door. "I'm unarmed," he shouted.

He thrust out his empty hands.

There were bright lights, shouts from armed cops. The helicopter throbbed in the sky, blades beating. The cops were telling him to keep his hands raised, get down on his stomach.

I glanced to my right. Liam was at the end of the hallway, shotgun in his fist, Rita cowering behind him, sobbing, two bodies on the floor, the splash of blood soaking the bed and carpet.

Scarface saw him and winked but then his eyes widened as Liam roared. It was the roar of a man pushed to the edge. A man drowning in lies, fear and guilt. A man who would do anything for the one he loved.

Liam charged along the hallway, gripping the sawn-off shotgun. There was nothing I could do but watch. Scarface began to rise. The police yelled at him and then Liam burst from the flat and collided into Scarface.

I watched them fly over the balcony.

* * *

"Is this everything?" asked DS Corrigan.

I nodded.

"You have my notes and the phone. Andrea Renshaw said she won't talk but that's down to you and your people."

Corrigan lifted the evidence-bagged mobile phone that had belonged to Nicky Lopez.

"We'll make inquiries."

"Can I go?"

"DCI Bailey wants to interview you." She glanced at the wall clock. "But I think that can wait for now."

"We done then?"

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

"Yeah, a bar. I want to get hammered."

Corrigan smiled.

"You were very tenacious, Kina. I know people who would be interested in the skills you showed."

"What kind of people?"

"Investigators."

"I don't think so."

"You have a natural ability to join the dots. Listen, being a good detective is not black and white. Macklin might have you think otherwise." She smiled and I couldn't help but smile back at her. "Different talents are required to investigate complicated cases. It isn't about education."

"Are you offering me a job?"

She shook her head, sipped her coffee. "No, but I can connect you with an agency who would be interested in you."

"I did this for my sister. That was all."

She got to her feet. "I think you did this for more than her."

* * *

Corrigan offered me a lift home. I told her I was no longer staying in Dalston. She arched an eyebrow at me. I gave her the address of DT Records, Forest Gate, and asked if she'd drop me there.

"What will happen to the estate?"

Spots of rain began to fall, peppering the windscreen. It was nearly 4am. There was hardly a car on the road.

"I think you already know the answer to that," she said. "Nothing will happen. Nothing will change."

We were passing through Stratford when I suddenly asked her to let me out. She hit the brakes. "Are you OK?"

"I just fancy walking."

"Are you serious?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

She let me out, drove away. I turned, headed back toward a row of buildings with darkened doorways.

A dog growled.

"Benny?" I whispered.

He trotted out of the gloom. I reached down, petted him. He recognised me, slunk back into the dark. I followed him, watched him drop into his basket, worn teddy bear beneath his paw. Max was curled against the wall. I could smell alcohol on him. His left eye was battered, half-closed.

"Shit," I said. "You want a roof over your head tonight?"

"Do they take dogs?"

"Yeah," I said. "Tonight they take dogs."

* * *

Max and Benny disappeared a day before Christmas Eve.

No note, no message, nothing. He'd stayed longer than I'd expected, longer than I thought Dylan would let him be around.

Simon had been cremated and though Liam Naylor could not be charged – he and Scarface were killed in the fall - we at last had answers. Melanie French was at the funeral. She ignored Olivia but spoke to me. She told me she was planning on moving. Trevor wore black. There was something tragic in a child his age wearing black. I wondered if the corners and estates would grab him as he matured. His dad had been cut down by a crew from Stratford. That would be his beef. The cycle would keep going. I hoped Melanie moved him away.

I was working three jobs by now. Dylan ran an online service as well as his shop and he got me packing and mailing out orders for him. It was easy enough and he gave me a cracking deal on the flat. There was no rent in the area as low as what he was charging me.

My second job was washing cars. I came across it by accident. I was in East Ham, heading home after picking up a few bargains, when a fight broke out in a car wash. I hadn't realised it had been between two employees. The boss came out and sacked them both on the spot. It was a rash decision. He was backed up with vehicles that needed scrubbing up before Christmas.

I whipped off my jacket, tied it round my waist and started washing. It was a big gamble, and I got plenty of stick from the other car washers, all guys, but the boss man was impressed and hired me.

The third job was back with another cleaning company. Jenny, who I'd worked with at Fast Genie, had put in a word for me. Four nights a week, the perfect place to hide. I didn't hear from Abi leading up to Christmas. I was glad and disappointed. Something had sparked and fizzed there. I'd really cared about her.

I guessed it was too late to find out how far it could've gone.

THIRTY EIGHT

On Christmas Eve, I went to _Heaven 101_.

It was crammed and the staff wore seasonal outfits. It was the first Christmas I hadn't spent behind bars since my twenties. It was also the first time I'd come here single. I wore a glitzy short-sleeved black dress that sparkled beneath the lights. I scanned the bar, saw desirable women in every direction; I wasn't going home alone tonight.

But there was a problem. Most of the desirable women tonight were in groups or a couple.

I hunted down a few singles but didn't make any connections. They didn't interest me. I didn't interest them.

Hanging at the bar, I quickly worked through a few bottles of beer before moving onto the cocktails. I spotted Abi and my confidence nose-dived a little further. She was wearing a tight-fitting, low-cut party dress, small cleavage on show, a ream of tinsel draped round her neck. She was giggling with a group of older women. Jacky was alongside her in a denim shirt and a waistcoat decorated with Christmas trees that lit up.

I squashed the anger and decided to go outside for a cigarette. I was picking up my jacket when I saw her; it was the Asian woman in the black leather trousers with the red-dyed hair. Her light brown skin glistened. I watched her. She was an expert at spotting prey. Gliding through the pack, she headed for a timid-looking first-timer at the bar, a white woman with frizzy blonde hair. I glanced over at Abi. She'd seen me, finally. Her smile drained a little and then she raised her glass at me. I didn't respond. Jacky looked over. Her face was stony.

Blanking them, I made my move. The crowd were singing and dancing as the hours counted down to the end of the night. I drew alongside the woman in the black leather trousers and her new conquest. I slid between them but this time I faced the Asian woman.

"How about a real challenge?" I said.

The blonde gasped, muttered something. I ignored her. I was focused on the woman standing before me. She was the same height as me. She had a beauty spot beside her painted lips. I hadn't noticed that before. I looked her up and down, nodded.

"Really?" she said.

I grabbed her, met her brown eyes.

"Really," I said. I kissed her. "I'm Kina."

"Shanaz," she said. "Call me Naz."

"Let's go downstairs and dance."

We left an hour or so later, holding hands, legs aching. We booked a taxi. It would be at least ninety minutes. That was fine. I was starving and so was Naz. We grabbed a table in a nearby Indian restaurant, chatting over Korma and spring rolls, counting the seconds for our taxi to arrive, knowing all we wanted was to get back to my flat.

It swung into Christmas Day. We went outside and watched fireworks shoot into the sky.

It was the early hours of the morning when we reached my flat. The bulb in the hallway had gone. I grabbed Naz by the hand and we stumbled up the dark, narrow stairs. We collapsed halfway up, giggling and kissing. We finally made it to the flat. I unlocked the door, swung it open, but Naz hesitated.

"Hey, there's a bag here for you." She giggled. " _He's been_."

"Don't touch it," I shouted, pushing her back.

She froze, clearly freaked out. I was breathing hard. "Just don't touch it. It could be anything."

In that moment I saw doubt in her eyes. She was sobering up very quickly. I rushed back onto the landing, torch in hand and shone it into the corner.

It was an innocent looking Christmas bag. I pointed the torch inside and saw a card and wrapped gift.

I smiled sheepishly at her. "Sorry."

"It's not a bomb," she said. "I've still got mine in here." She slapped her handbag and laughed at me.

I dragged her into the flat, slammed the door shut, and pinned her against it, kissing her savagely. I unzipped her trousers, reached into her panties. She groaned. She was soaking.

"I need a pee," she said.

"In there." I pointed. "I'll open a bottle."

She dashed into the bathroom. I whipped out my cigarettes, lit one. I checked my mobile. A dozen text messages had landed through the evening. I would read them in the morning. Naz sung on the toilet. She had a beautiful voice. I slipped off my jacket, kicked off my heels, massaged my feet. I still hadn't got the wine from the kitchen.

I rooted into the Christmas bag, dug out the present. It was the shape and feel of a vinyl record. I set it down, unopened, and picked up the card. It was the first one I'd opened this year and it was from Tayla:

Merry Christmas Kina.

I'm sorry I tricked you at the Reclaim meeting. I think you could really help us and

the community.

Yvonne wants to meet you again. She is a different woman. So are you

I hope you're not alone for Christmas. I bought you a present.

Tayla xx

Naz stood in the bathroom doorway, one hand resting on her hip. Her clothes were off. Her underwear was black. Her brown skin was covered in tattoos. I stared at her, gliding my tongue over my lips.

"Where's my drink?" she said.

"Still in the fridge." I nodded toward the kitchen. She went by me. "Who's the present from?"

I tore off the wrapping paper. "A friend," I said.

Naz came back from the kitchen, bottle in hand, and eased onto my lap. "I couldn't be bothered to look for glasses."

She swigged.

"I download all my music," she said. "Are you into this?"

My fingers gripped the cardboard edges. _Boney M. Nightflight to Venus._ "My dad was. It was his favourite album."

"Is he still around?"

"No."

"Do you want to play it?"

I grabbed the bottle from her, drank. "Not tonight. Wait here." I went into the bedroom, snapped on the light.

Naz followed, peered round the doorframe. "Do you sleep in here with all these boxes?"

"It's temporary," I said, rooting through them. "Where is it?"

She slid behind me. Her warm body pressed against me. Her hands reached for my breasts.

I gasped, softened against her. "Let me put this on." I'd connected up a record player since crashing in the flat. I lifted the arm, dropped the needle onto the vinyl, heard that reassuring crackle.

I curled my arms round Naz, pulled her close, kissed her.

Trumpets blared, strings started up, and then a percussion of cowbells and hihats, shakers and cymbals layered in. A guitar twanged, the melody broke for a second and then came an incredibly deep and soulful voice.

We danced, nice and slow. Naz rested her head against me. "Is that Barry White singing?"

I glanced down at the record sleeve. Floyd Wickman beamed back at me in those incredibly tight trousers.

"That ain't Barry White," I said.

THE END

Thank you for reading _Wiping out Guilt_ – I hope you enjoyed the story.

Kina McKevie will soon return in a new investigation.

Chasing Answers

