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Chapters (65)
  1. Cover
  2. PENGUIN BOOKS
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. Acknowledgements
  63. Read More
  64. Prologue
  65. THE BEGINNING

But she felt a surge of energy as she turned and headed for her car, revelling in the unexpected prospect of a decent investigation.

Distraction at last.

Penguin Walking Logo

2

Park Gardens could have passed for a war zone.

Hawkins stepped over the jagged edge of yet another lifted flagstone, distastefully scanning the burnt-out meter boxes and crumbling brickwork of Priory Walk.

According to the bright yellow signs posted at regular intervals on the mesh safety fencing, these thirties brick flats were scheduled for demolition early next year.

Until then, the largely condemned estate made a great dumping ground for dead bodies.

She checked her mobile, dismayed to find that even a heavy right foot had only shaved a few minutes off her projected travel time from Ealing. On the way she had called her two most regular detective sergeants, Amala Yasir and Aaron Sharpe. Aaron was on compulsory training for revised arrest protocols until lunchtime and couldn’t make it, but Amala had been in the team’s office at Becke House, and would have beaten Hawkins here.

Then she’d taken a deep breath and rung Maguire.

Voicemail.

She hadn’t left a message, because a missed call made a stronger statement that she was trying. But the whole argument would have to wait, at least until she got a handle on this new case.

She passed through an underpass that reeked of piss, emerging, head turned against an icy breeze, into what by comparison was the desirable end of Park Gardens.

Two storeys of the same bare brick housing overlooked a tatty grass area, kids’ bicycles strewn here and there, near an upended bin bag disgorging an intermittent stream of crisp packets to the wind. At least at this end of the estate half the windows had glass; the remainder simply boarded instead of breeze-blocked up. Not a soul had shown themselves yet, but she caught ripples in at least two sets of curtains, one from a flat displaying a string of idly flashing Christmas lights. Somewhere in the background, a kids’ TV show blared.

There were families here.

Movement from the far corner of the square caught her attention, as DS Amala Yasir came out from the shadows of another cut-through and waved her across.

Hawkins walked over, their greeting limited to stoic nods as the sergeant turned back the way she had come. ‘This way, ma’am.’