And suppose the police did their job and arrested Mr. Twigg, what then? The Sabinis had plenty of men. Would Darby Sabini accept the loss, or would Joel get jumped in a dark street one night? He didn’t think defiance would feel like a moral victory after someone had pulped his right hand with a boot heel or a brick. Joel could feel it, feel the dry, grainy texture and the dull edge smashing down...

“Fuck,” he said aloud.

He sat down and put his head in his hand. What to do? Pay up? He could manage a pound a week, probably, but it would put his state-of-the-art prosthetic out of his reach for months more, maybe years. The thought of waiting longer so some bastard gang boss could drink gin at his expense filled him with a sick, helpless fury.

And just like the other times he’d been the helpless target of abuse, he’d have to get used to it, because there was damn all he could do about it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

AARON WAS BONE-WEARY as he made his way back to Lisson Grove after yet another long and miserable day. The last week had been one of the most sapping of his life.

DI Davis had piled work on his desk, not just the canal-workers’ union, about which Aaron had carefully found nothing to object to, but two other cases. He had been scrambling to keep up with those and the entirely stalled Marks investigation; he’d done damn all to confirm his suspicions about DDI Colthorne.

He felt useless, and Aaron hated feeling useless. He’d joined the police because service was purpose, and if he couldn’t achieve anything there, if he wasn’t any good to anyone—or perhaps he was even worse than useless, propping up an organisation that was rotting from the head—and all for a job that had cost him so much...

Aaron didn’t want to think how much it had cost him. He’d been trying not to think of that for months now, since his father’s death. Not to think of Challice sobbing because other women’s pain was being used to beat her down, or of people who asked for help and went unanswered while their so-called protectors lined their pockets, or of good men—they were good men, he insisted to himself—like Sergeant Hollis, bullying Joel for Aaron’s benefit, or Inspector Cassell, dismissing an act of sexual violence if the victim was the wrong sort.

He’d wanted to make things better in a world that screamed for help, and he’d sacrificed so much for that and been so lonely, and he wished he could say, It was worth it.