PRAISE FOR PAUL FINCH

‘Wonderfully dark and peppered with grim humour. Finch is a born storyteller and writes with the authentic voice of the ex-copper he is.’

PETER JAMES

‘Edge-of-the-seat reading … formidable – a British Alex Cross.’

SUN

‘An ingenious and original plot. Compulsive reading.’

RACHEL ABBOTT

‘As good as I expected from Paul Finch. Relentlessly action-packed, breathless in its finale, Paul expertly weaves a trail through the North’s dark underbelly.’

NEIL WHITE

‘A deliciously twisted and fiendish set of murders and a great pairing of detectives.’

STAV SHEREZ

‘Avon’s big star … part edge-of-the-seat, part hide-behind-the-sofa!’

THE BOOKSELLER

‘An explosive thriller that will leave you completely hooked.’

WE LOVE THIS BOOK

Title Page

Dedication

For my wife, Catherine,

always my strong right arm.

Prologue

The Hollinbrook estate, in Crowley, was as suburban as they came.

Not rich, but the gardens were neat, tidy, their lawns smoothly mown if not expansive. The cars on the drives were mainly family affairs, some a little beaten-up, all implying middle-income rather than wealth. But if it wasn’t hugely prosperous, at least the Hollinbrook had the air of safety. It might be part of Greater Manchester’s sprawling conurbation, but Hollinbrook was peaceful and quiet, a sedate backwater, where children could play unsupervised, and where pensioners like Harry Hopkins could take their dogs out for a late evening stroll in full confidence that nothing bad would happen to them.

Not that this would normally have been an issue for Harry. A former collier, he’d been a burly bloke in his youth, and though seventy-seven now, he still had a bluff, rugged aura. In his day, ‘graft’ had been a word that meant something: hot sweat, aching muscles, hands cut and callused, a body shrouded black with coal-dust. And none of it a source of complaint – because that was your job, your life, that was what you did to put food on the table.