‘What’s that?’ she whispered, trying to buy herself a precious few extra seconds. She had a horrible feeling, though, that she didn’t want to know what it was.

Toni took the syringe from Rong and held it up in front of Bailey’s face. It was filled with a sandy-coloured liquid in which tiny impurities floated. The needle glistened, a droplet of liquid oozing from its tip.

‘This is a hundred quid’s worth of ninety-three per cent pure Pakistani heroin.’

Ninety-three per cent.

Bailey knew from her police experience that most heroin that drug addicts took was twenty per cent pure, if that. With a black sinking dread, she realised that they were intending to give her what junkies fearfully referred to as a hot-shot – a deliberately lethal injection of smack designed to kill the victim by overdose.

‘Much as I’d love to carve you up personally,’ said Toni, ‘it’s a lot less trouble for us if you’re just found here in your cell dead of an overdose with a needle sticking out of your arm. No one will bother investigating your death and therefore no one will interfere with our business. They’ll just think you were some sad junkie who OD’ed.’

Bailey squirmed and struggled in Muscles’ iron clutch.

‘Hold her tight, Muscles,’ said Toni.

Muscles gripped her even tighter whilst Rong took hold of Bailey’s left wrist and yanked up the sleeve of her jogging top to expose her left forearm. She wrenched it forward. Toni hunched over it and aimed the tip of the syringe downwards.

‘Hold her still! I’ve got to get it into the vein.’

‘No please! Please don’t do it! I’m not a cop! I’m not a cop! I swear!’

The sinews in Bailey’s arm stood out as she twisted and wriggled against them but she couldn’t escape. Their fingers bit harder into her flesh as they held her immobile. She felt the sharp tip of the needle scrape the skin of her forearm.

‘Hold her still, damn it!’ said Toni, trying to line up the needle with the vein.

Bailey closed her eyes, clenched her teeth and braced herself for the massive hit that would put her into a coma within seconds from which she would never awaken.

‘She’s not a cop.’

Bailey opened her eyes.

Poppy was leaning against the doorway, her arms crossed, her black fringe hanging down across her face, calmly observing the situation with her large kohl-rimmed eyes.

Toni paused, a grimace on her face, the needle poised just a few millimetres from Bailey’s forearm. She twisted her head around slowly.

‘How do you know?’ she growled.

‘She told me stuff.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Accountancy. She knows too much about accountancy to be a cop. No pig would ever know that much about spreadsheets.’

Bailey felt an overwhelming surge of relief at Poppy’s intervention. Her life was hanging in the balance and Poppy was now all that stood in the way of certain death. All those conversations they’d had together and all those interactions during the tattooing sessions now converged upon this single crucial moment.