Belle glared at him, standing there so elegant; so handsome and calm and in control, with his neatly brushed honey-coloured hair, his pale emotionless grey eyes. While she was barefoot, wearing a tattered rag of a dress, soaked in sweat, her blonde hair plastered to her head. She was scratched and bloody from where they’d dragged her in here. If the men hadn’t been holding her up, she would have collapsed to her knees.

‘So go on,’ he said.

Belle gulped and stared at him. What?

‘Go on,’ he said again. ‘Beg me.’

She said nothing.

‘Beg me for your life,’ he said.

Belle looked down at the water. There were things moving in there. Something long slipping in from the opposite side. Eyes, she could see eyes. Reptilian and cold. The powerful swish of a tail. Her mother’s words came back to her then.

‘Keeping bloody snakes and lizards and caimans! Only weirdos do that.’

Caimans.

Belle knew that Charlie had fed them on whole dead chickens. A caiman was like a crocodile, it could take a pig. They were plenty big enough to do that. They could also take a human being. No bother at all. You needed a licence under the Dangerous Wild Animals Act to keep them, which Charlie had acquired without any difficulty.

Friends in high places.

Low places, too.

Oh Christ help me . . .

‘Waiting,’ said Harlan. ‘What do you say, Belle?’ He was smiling.

‘I know what you did,’ said Belle.

‘Did?’ He frowned. ‘About what?’

‘You know very bloody well,’ she said. ‘Beezer. Jake. And the business. The manor. I know what it is.’

The smile dropped from his face, leaving it blank.

‘Throw her in,’ he said.

1950s

1

‘You’re nicked, my son,’ said the copper, grabbing hold of nine-year-old Charlie Stone’s collar with one beefy hand.

Terry, Charlie’s best mate, kicked the policeman in the shin and hefted a dead rat at him. It was so ripe, the tail dropped off and its innards spattered the copper’s legs. The stench was horrible.

‘You dirty little bastard,’ said the copper, swiping at Terry while trying to keep a grip on Charlie, who was wriggling like an eel.

Terry darted in and kicked again. The rest of Charlie’s gang had scarpered already, headed back to the den. But Terry wouldn’t desert Charlie. They were a pair, these two. They skived off school together. Went scrumping together. And together – today – they’d shinned over the back gates of the grocer’s and started lobbing apples and pears over the top for their mates to catch.

Everything had been going good, then this filth had come out the back door of the shop. One of the neighbours must have raised the alarm.

Terry kicked again.

‘Little fucker,’ roared the copper, and let go of Charlie.