Taking the slip road through the industrial estate that led to the busy main road into the city, she pulled up and waited for a break in the traffic. The call went through to a switchboard and she told them she was trying to get hold of DI Kelly Porter. The other detective– DCI Carter– hadn’t looked as savvy, and Miranda wanted to speak to the female officer. She realised that the DI might already know what she was about to tell her, but it would feel good anyway.

She was put on hold.

She pulled out onto the main road. Three cars behind her, a lorry moved into the middle lane and overtook, slipping back in behind Miranda. She had no idea it was there until it slammed into the back of her car, crushing it against the buffer wall on the left-hand side of the road. She heard herself screaming and felt her hands come off the steering wheel. The only pain was in her feet, and she guessed that they were trapped by the weight of the mangled engine that had shunted backwards with the impact. She felt curiously detached; she knew deep down inside that this was it, that she was not going to make it. Her head spun in slow motion and banged against hard surfaces, but she couldn’t reach up. She saw only blackness.

The first person on the scene was a driver who’d witnessed the whole thing unfold from four cars back. The scene was carnage, but Miranda’s car was the worst. He approached the driver’s side and peered in, but instantly regretted it. The sight of the woman forced him to bend over and vomit. He was shaking so badly that he couldn’t dial the correct digits on his phone. Another driver did it instead.

The whole section of road came to a standstill. In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard. Somebody went to the cabin of the lorry that had completely crushed the front of the woman’s car.

It was empty.

Chapter 35

Colonel Benjamin Dansford scrolled through an email from a private tour operator in Dubrovnik. He’d served there during the nineties, but it was quite the tourist destination again after being bombed to shit two decades ago. He was planning a cruise, taking in Montenegro, and was finalising details of the hotels. His choice was usually based around the wine cellar.

His hands shook. He regretted opening a third bottle of red last night. A cigarette would sort him out, he decided, and he left his office to walk to the end of the street. In the MoD building he didn’t wear uniform, and so he was anonymous, blending in with all the other office workers and tourists filling the pavements of London.