Detective Inspector Timothy Branch would never have believed that he would feel any kind of pity for Michael Flynn, but he did. He felt the man’s pain as if it was his own. No one should ever have to see a child like this. It was outrageous – it took a certain kind of hate to be capable of harming another person so wickedly. Child murderers, rapists, were capable of such viciousness, of such cowardice, because they were cowards. They bullied the weakest people in society, little children and anyone who was smaller or weaker than them. Now Jessie Flynn, whose father was the hardest man in Europe, let alone London or the UK, who was responsible for every earn available, was dead. Murdered.

If this could happen to Michael Flynn’s child, what chance did anyone else have? This just proved that no one was immune to hatred. As a police officer, Timothy had always known that – he had seen so much mindless violence, so many pointless murders. But when something like this happened to a man like Michael Flynn, a man who was by all accounts at the pinnacle of his power, it was food for thought. Here he was, crushed and weeping as he looked at his daughter’s bruised and broken body. It was an eye-opening situation.

Michael Flynn looked at Timothy Branch, and he smiled eerily. ‘I’ve got him though, Timothy, I’ve got the fucker, and I will make him pay. Don’t you worry about that.’

Timothy Branch didn’t answer him. He just stood there, silently thanking the Good Lord that it wasn’t his child lying there dead.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Nine

Chapter One Hundred
and Thirty-Nine

As Josephine heard her husband running up the stairs, she checked her make-up in her dressing table mirror, pleased to see that she looked perfect.

She sat up straighter in her chair, and turned off her DVD player. She knew that Michael hated her films, especially that she watched the same ones over and over again.

As he came into her bedroom, she was ready for him, she had a half smile on her face, and she looked towards him quizzically. It was a look she had practised and perfected over the years. There was no way she would lower herself to ask him why he had not bothered to get in touch with her. She still had her pride.

He stood before her, like an avenging angel, and she could see that he wasn’t his usual self. In fact, he looked terrible. His clothes were crumpled as if he had slept in them, and he was badly in need of a shave. She looked him up and down, very slowly, taking in his dishevelled appearance, and letting him know she had noticed it.

‘I thought I heard you, Michael, but it’s been a while so I wasn’t holding out too much hope of seeing you.’