The Clarion’s front page that morning was testament to Tamara’s photographic skills. Not to mention some last-minute editorial work. Mickey read the paper in a Costa, nursing an adrenaline hangover. Still smug from having got what he wanted without killing anyone. Top of the page, the faces of five women. Their eyes blacked out with masking tape sunglasses. As seen in special forces kiss-and-tell books. Protecting their anonymity. With the stark headline ‘VICTIMS.’ Below, three larger pictures. Two men and a woman. All visibly battered. Lips split, battered faces starting to puff up. Accorded the same privacy as their victims. A lawyers’ decision Mickey’s best guess. With the sub-headline ‘VICTIMS?’

Inside, the first few lines were enough to make the Clarion’s answer to that question clear to even a casual reader. Rescued by an unknown benefactor, it seemed, the five women in question clearly trafficked for abuse. Illegal immigrants, they would be taken into the care of the state. Protective custody, to enable them to testify without fear. And would probably be returned to their own countries in due course. Whether that was fair, or even sensible, given their desire to work, the article questioned. But that they had been trafficked, raped, and were destined for prostitution before their rescue, beyond doubt.

Tamara had come up trumps. Proving that Mickey had judged correctly in handing her the scoop. She had, Mickey guessed, either bribed or sisterhooded her way into the house. Unless, of course, Jasmine Chen had been instrumental after a call from the Clarion’s editor. The resulting pictures both familiar and chilling.

The individual cells in which the women had been held. Their abusers’ quarters, complete with a PlayStation and satellite TV. A cupboard full of spirits bottles. Whereas all the women had was bare walls, a mattress and a blanket. The racked packs of condoms used by the men in the “training” of their victims. An unnamed officer explaining to the reporter that this was for the avoidance of pregnancy. Or rather the loss of income that would entail.

Tamara’s outrage shone through the paragraphs of terse, biting prose. Mickey nodded. Happy with what he’d achieved. And her ability to lay Joe’s operation out for examination with pictures and words. Relieved to see that the article went under the by-line “Clarion Investigation Team”, as instructed. Ensuring both her protection and his own.

Physically weary, but wired, he sipped his cappuccino and pondered. The main focus of his pondering being two words. What now?

As if to answer, his personal phone buzzed. Incoming message alert. Early, for Roz. But it wasn’t Roz. It was Nemesis.

‘Why did you involve the press?’

He wasn’t going to try to deny it. Typed in his answer.

‘Because I want to ramp up the pressure on that bastard. It was you that said the clock’s ticking.’

A pause. He sipped his coffee. Considering the sheer incongruity of the conversation.