With a brass-handled cane tucked under one arm, Gilmont moseyed along the uneven pavement to his newest meth lab. The cane was not a fashion statement, but merely a protection from the daily knifings in this area of London. With so many police station closings, the MET now handled most of their surveillance by CCTV cameras.

His overlong hair was in need of a cut. He’d get around to that soon, perhaps tonight, if all worked according to plan.

He circled the block of terraced houses three times. His fear of arrest made him a bit obsessive, but he didn’t care. The inside of a cell was not an experience he cared to repeat.

The run-down townhouse belonged to one of his former student’s grandparents. They had agreed to any terms for an infusion of cash. Gilmont had accepted, largely because he had a soft spot for the elderly, due to the sweet grandmother who had raised him.

The tired-looking home had an overgrown garden filled with broken bits and bobs lying about the unmown weeds. He touched the rusted gate, and paint flaked off into his hand. Hard to believe such poverty existed only a stone’s throw from Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre.

A double flash, followed by darkness, glinted from the rooftop across the street each time he passed the block of terraced homes. When he reached the alley on the third pass, he let himself inside the gate and followed the wall, staying to the shadows. Gilmont gripped the brass doorknob, looked about one last time to assure himself that no one followed, then slipped inside.

With worn furniture in need of replacement, the interior wasn’t much better than the garden. But the place was clean—scrupulously so—and smelled faintly of oranges.

Gilmont nodded to the white-haired woman in her faded, over-starched apron. One side of her face had swollen, and traces of a bruise showed along the edge of her hairline. Her husband sat at the kitchen table, nursing a beer. His bloodshot eyes followed Gilmont to the basement door.

Unease rippled across Gilmont’s skin. Still eyeing the couple, he rapped on the door. Danny let him in, and they clattered down the stairs to another door, a new one, made of thick metal with a series of deadbolts and Duraclad hinges.

“Mrs. Delbert’s face is bruised,” Gilmont said.

“She asked why we have so many bolts on this door. I reminded her to not ask questions.”

Gilmont’s breath suspended. When Danny reminded someone, it was usually with his fists. “Don’t touch her again. Under no circumstances is she to be touched. Understand? If she acts out, finish her, but don’t beat her.” Gilmont’s hand unfastened the top of his cane, where a thin, silver blade shone in the dim light.