Double Crossed

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

'Well into MARTINA COLE territory' Independent

'A cracking good read' JESSIE KEANE

ON THE STREETS OF LONDON, DANGER LURKS EVERYWHERE . . .

Liv Anderson can take care of herself and she knows how to make money in a man's world. The daughter of a convicted murderer, she's made her way in one of the roughest parts of London by entrapping men and extorting them for money. But Liv is playing a dangerous game and soon finds herself in trouble with the city's most notorious gangster . . .

To repay her debt, Liv is forced to pose as a secretary for a local property developer and report back on his movements. She has no idea what she's looking for, but she'll do anything to stay alive. And after the murder of a local prostitute and the disappearance of a friend, Liv is starting to think survival may be harder than she realised.

But Liv isn't only concerned with repaying her debt - she also wants to know more about her father. As she desperately tries to uncover the truth about his past, her suspicious behaviour places her in grave danger. But when you're working with gangsters, who can you trust?

Full of the same danger and grit as its London setting, this is Roberta Kray at the top of her game. Get ready for a KILLER read . . .

Early reader reviews for DOUBLE CROSSED:

'I absolutely love a Roberta Kray book . . . gangland at its finest'
'Highly recommended to all . . . You will not be disappointed!'
'A gritty crime novel that you can't put down . . . do yourself a favour and read it'
'Roberta Kray really knows her stuff. Gritty gangland is her forte . . . Recommendation is high for this one. 5*'
'If you love gangster books, this one is for you . . . another winner for the author'

Release date: November 11, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

Liv Anderson checked out her reflection as she walked through the hotel lobby. Without make-up and with her long dark hair lying loose around her shoulders she looked younger than she actually was, closer to sixteen or seventeen than twenty-one. An innocent abroad. A girl ripe for the picking. Her shoulders were bare, her skin smooth and unblemished. The skirt of her pale blue summer dress swung around her legs.

She could still recall the terror she’d felt on the first occasion – the thumping of her heart, the burning shame, the desire for the ground to open up and swallow her – but familiarity had blunted its edge. With every month that passed her confidence was growing. Now only a few residual nerves fluttered in her chest. The rights and wrongs no longer bothered her; life ceased to be black and white when the rent needed paying, and scruples were only for people who could afford them.

Liv went into the cocktail lounge and quickly surveyed the room. She approached the bar, ordered a small lemonade and took the drink over to an empty table. The chosen man was sitting a few feet away from her. He was middle-aged, overweight with a jowly face, receding hairline and a gold band on his finger. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she sipped the lemonade. She knew his type: a married businessman away from home, bored and on the lookout for something or someone to distract him.

She crossed her legs, opened her handbag, took out the small A–Z street atlas of London and flipped to the page that covered most of the West End. With her forefinger she traced the various roads while she peered, sighed, frowned and waited for him to rise to the bait. It didn’t take long.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘But would you like some help? I know London quite well.’

She smiled. ‘Oh, how kind. I’m trying to find the best way to Trafalgar Square, but it seems so complicated. I’ve really got no sense of direction at all.’

He stood up, came over and sat down beside her. ‘Trafalgar Square, eh? Well, that’s not too far off. Are you here on holiday?’

‘To see my uncle, but he’s been called away. He won’t be back until tomorrow.’

This was how it always started. And where it led was always the same, too. Introductions were made: he told her his name was George Barnes – probably a lie – and she said hers was Nancy Cook. She told him she had never been to London before. He explained the most straightforward route to Trafalgar Square and she flattered him and said how clever he was. Then he advised her against going there at night. ‘A pretty girl isn’t safe alone. There are all sorts roaming around. It’s fine during the day though. You should wait until the morning.’

She nodded at his wise advice and thanked him. He was sitting too close, his arm touching hers. His gaze lingered on where the thin cotton of her dress covered her thighs. They chatted for a while. She finished her drink and he offered her another. ‘How about a Martini?’ She said she wasn’t sure but let herself be persuaded. The cocktail was a strong one and she pretended it had gone to her head, giggling too much and fanning her face with the A–Z. ‘Is it just me or is it hot in here?’

The bar was filling up, growing ever noisier. Eventually, inevitably, he suggested going to his room. ‘It’ll be quieter there. I can order up some drinks and we can have a proper chat.’

It had taken less than fifteen minutes. As they stood in the lift together, Liv thought about what was coming next – the hot breath on her neck, the groping and grunting – and mentally rolled her eyes. She could smell the sweat oozing from his pores and caught a whiff of musky aftershave. The only consolation was that it would soon be over. Easy money, she told herself. Better than slaving all week in a typing pool. And she chattered on, talking mindlessly like the naïve girl she was supposed to be.

Once they were in his room and the door was shut behind them, he didn’t waste any time. Now they were alone the sham façade of propriety quickly slipped. Almost immediately his hands were on her, his fingers clawing at her dress, his mouth slobbering over hers. She turned her face away and tried to push him off.

‘What about that drink?’ she asked.

‘After,’ he said. He took her arms, propelling her towards the bed. ‘Come on, love. Don’t be a tease.’

But things were moving too fast. She wrenched herself free and backed away from him. By now her clothes were in disarray, one shoulder bare, and she was looking thoroughly dishevelled. He moved towards her again and she skirted round the big double bed. She could imagine this same scenario taking place all over the country – the predatory male and the girl about to be seduced – and felt a surge of loathing for the creature in front of her.

‘Nancy,’ he wheedled. ‘Don’t run away. We’re friends. You like me, don’t you?’

Liv stared at him. His mouth was smiling, but anger flashed in his eyes. She smiled back, forcing her lips to curl, making her expression more amenable. She wasn’t taking any chances. Even the most mild-mannered of men could turn nasty if they didn’t get what they wanted. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Well then.’ He sat on the bed and patted the space beside him. ‘Come and sit down.’

Like a chicken walking towards a fox, Liv slowly retraced her steps. George’s lustful gaze was fixed on her, waiting for her to be within striking distance. She sucked in a breath and girded herself for the next act in this sordid little drama.

The moment she was close enough, he reached out, grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on to the bed. Then, before she could wriggle free, he’d climbed on top of her and pinned her with the weight of his body, forcing her legs apart as he groped for his flies. So much for romance, she thought, as she lay passively beneath him, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her body was still but her mind was racing. This was the point where she always started to panic, knowing it could all so easily go wrong. He was struggling with her panties, trying to pull them down, when salvation finally came.

The hammering on the door was loud and insistent. ‘Nancy! Nancy!’ And seconds later, discovering that the door was unlocked, Pally stormed into the room with a face like thunder. ‘What the hell is going on in here?’

Panicked, George rolled off Liv, leapt up and fumbled with his zip, trying to manipulate his private bits into a less public location.

Liv let out a cry. ‘Uncle David!’ Then she covered her face with her hands and pretended to weep. ‘It was him. I-I didn’t want to. I only came up for a chat and then … ’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ George protested. ‘I didn’t … Nothing happened.’

‘Nothing?’ Pally roared, rage emanating from every pore. ‘Do you call this nothing? Do you have any idea how old this girl is? It’s disgusting, disgraceful. What kind of a man are you?’

‘You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t know she was … ’

Pally, tall and intimidating, glared down at George. ‘Spare me the excuses. You’ve got eyes, haven’t you? She’s still at school, for God’s sake.’

George squirmed and spluttered and stared wildly round as though looking for an escape route. But Pally was standing between him and the door, and jumping out of the window was hardly an option when they were five flights up. ‘I didn’t know, did I? She didn’t tell me that. We had a drink and then—’

‘Oh, that’s your game, is it? Get her drunk and take advantage!’

‘No, I didn’t … ’

But Pally had turned his attention to Liv. ‘Nancy, go to your room.’

Liv, still snivelling, stood up and rearranged her dress. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘What do you think? Call the police, of course.’ Pally strode over to the phone, his jaw set. ‘This is a matter for the law.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Liv said. ‘What will Daddy say? He’ll be angry with me. He’ll go mad when he finds out.’

The colour had drained from George’s face. ‘There’s no need to get the police involved. It was a genuine mistake. If I’d thought, even for a second, that she wasn’t—’

‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ Pally said.

‘Please don’t, Uncle David,’ Liv pleaded. ‘Everyone’s going to find out. It’ll be in all the papers and … Please don’t!’

Pally hesitated, his hand on the phone. ‘So he’s supposed to just get away with it? The man’s a degenerate. He should be behind bars.’

‘But … but … ’

‘Go to your room, Nancy. Right now. I’ll deal with this.’

Liv bowed her head and slipped out. As she was closing the door behind her, George was already launching into a desperate attempt to save himself from public disgrace. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before. I swear I haven’t. I don’t know what came over me. It’ll never happen again. Surely there’s some way we can … ’

Liv, smiling, knew that there was always a way. After a suitable period of outrage, ‘Uncle David’ would give in and reluctantly agree to some reasonable financial recompense for the trauma she’d endured. And she didn’t feel bad about this. Why should she? George hadn’t felt bad when he’d tried to get her drunk and invited her up to his room. Men like him never had regrets until the point they got caught out.

She hurried along the corridor, took the lift down to the foyer and walked out on to the street. Then she strolled to the corner and lit a cigarette while she waited. The light was fading, sliding into dusk, but the air was still warm. Soon she’d be back in Soho with money in her pocket and the rest of Friday night to enjoy herself. Life was good.

Liv finished her cigarette and gazed back towards the hotel. Pally never took longer than he had to. The threat of the police, of involving the hotel manager, was usually enough to loosen the victim’s wallet without too much debate over the matter. Adept at what he did, calm and unflappable, Pally always played his part to perfection – even if his timing did leave something to be desired on occasion. She thought of George sprawled over her on the bed, and gave a shudder. Another minute and she’d have been in serious trouble. Still, those were the risks she took and the rewards made it worthwhile.

It was Verity, a girl who lived across the landing in the boarding house, who had introduced Liv to Pally, and Pally who had introduced her to the badger. The badger game was an old one, but men still fell for it. It was as though their brains went out of the window as soon as sex was on the table. Thoughts of their wives, their reputations, were thrown to the wind the moment a pretty girl came into view; lust replaced reason, and all good sense was lost.

A few minutes more passed before Pally finally emerged from the hotel and began to walk towards the corner. Despite her confidence in him, she released a small sigh of relief. Things could go wrong even with the best-laid plans. Quickly she scanned the street looking for a black cab and raised her arm as soon as one came into view. Pally was grinning as he caught up with her, climbed into the back and gave his instructions to the driver. ‘Dean Street, please, mate.’

Liv spoke softly so the cabbie wouldn’t overhear. ‘You took your time.’

‘A man and his money aren’t easily parted.’

‘I meant earlier. Cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you?’

Pally raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d have called it just about perfect. Only fools rush in. Isn’t that what they say?’

‘Yes, well, George was the impatient sort. The creep was all over me.’

‘When have I ever let you down?’

‘There’s always a first time.’

‘Never,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

Liv did trust him, although not over everything. ‘How much did you get?’

‘Half a ton.’

Liv studied him closely, searching for the tell, for the sign that he was holding out on her, but Pally never gave much away. Her half was nothing to complain about – twenty-five quid was three times what she’d have earned in a week in the typing pool or as an usherette – but she had a suspicion that he often took more than his fair share.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘I thought that was a pretty decent result. I mean, he’s hardly Rockefeller, is he?’

‘No, it’s good.’

‘So what’s with the face?’

Liv knew better than to start throwing accusations around. Their partnership, even if it wasn’t completely equal, was still a profitable one. And she needed him more than he needed her. He could easily find another girl, but she’d be hard pressed to find another Pally. Who else could walk into a hotel bar and spot a mark straight away? He had a sixth sense, an instinct. Deciding to keep things light, she laughed and said, ‘It’s that wig. You never look like you in it.’

Pally touched his head, grinning again. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

With his fake grey hair and staid navy suit, Pally was a vision of middle-aged, middle-class respectability. He should have been on the stage, she thought, with his talent for play acting. No one could feign outrage like him. Or know exactly how much could be screwed from a victim. He was a born conman.

Liv took her compact out of her bag, examined her face in the mirror and then put on some lipstick. She had fallen a bit in love with Pally at the start. He was good looking, smart, funny and kind. And he always took care of her. No one had done that since her mum had died. So, perhaps unsurprisingly, she’d developed some romantic notions before Verity had put her straight.

‘You’ve no chance there, love. You’re not his type.’

And Liv, still as innocent as a lamb back then, had said: ‘Why? Does he prefer blondes?’

Verity had snorted into her vodka. ‘I’ve no idea, but he certainly doesn’t prefer women. He’s as queer as they come, Liv. Didn’t you realise?’

Liv, of course, hadn’t. She was a small-town girl and where she came from such things were never talked about or at least not with any openness. At first, she’d been disappointed, but now she reckoned it was for the best. This way they could go on working together without any messy complications.

Pally took off his tie, slipped it into his pocket and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Then he placed his hand on her knee and squeezed it. ‘We make a good team, you and me.’

‘The best,’ she said.

‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘I’ll meet you in the caff.’

There was nowhere quite like Soho. It was brilliant and dreary, uplifting and depressing, full of hope and riddled with desperation. Liv revelled in its contradictions. She was fascinated by the narrow knot of streets and everything that lay within. Even the smells – Turkish coffee, Russian tobacco – made her senses tingle. Here there were no moral boundaries, no restrictions, so long as you stayed under the radar of the police. Here there was a different rhythm, an alternative beat to the rest of the city.

It was almost a year now since Liv had chucked in her job, packed a bag, caught a train and come to London. Her mother’s sudden death had left her not only bereft but homeless, too, and a fresh start had seemed the best way forward. She had no regrets about the move. The streets might not be paved with gold but there was money to be made if you were young and fearless and knew where to look.

At the moment, however, the only place she was looking was through the window of a café and along Old Compton Street. She was waiting for Pally to show up, hoping that he hadn’t forgotten they were supposed to meet. He’d been drunk last night, pissed as a newt, but that was nothing new. The last time she’d seen him had been after eleven when they’d left the pub. He’d staggered off towards the Gargoyle club, arm in arm with some bloke she’d never seen before. ‘Come with us,’ he’d said. But she hadn’t fancied playing gooseberry.

She looked up at the clock on the wall – a quarter to six – and wondered how much longer to wait. Sometimes Pally disappeared for days, even weeks, on one of his gambling sprees, returning either triumphant in a new suit of clothes with money in his pocket or down at heel without a penny to his name. He always took the latter philosophically, saying that was just the way it was, that Lady Luck hadn’t been shining on him that time.

Pally was a gambler when it came to men, too. It could be a tricky business picking up a mate when the law decreed that your lusts were illegal. But sex, sex of all kinds, was everywhere in Soho. For Liv, who had been raised in a stifling bubble of respectability – always behave with decorum, never act immodestly – it had been something of a revelation. She had grown up with the word ‘no’ echoing in her ears: she couldn’t do this and she couldn’t do that, and she certainly couldn’t do the other. Reputation was everything. Being female meant living like a nun until you were married. Not that she blamed her mother for being so strict; sticking to the rules was the only way to survive in a small town, especially if you had something to hide. Secrets had to be securely buried. Once the tongues started wagging there would be no end to the rumours and gossip.

Liv gazed down at the table. She didn’t want to think about the past, about what her mum had told her. It only made her feel sad and angry and confused. Why had she told her? Perhaps it had been too much of a burden to carry alone. Or perhaps she had just been worried that Liv would find out one day anyway and that it was better to come clean than to face the repercussions of having hidden the truth.

The door to the café opened and Liv looked up expectantly. But it wasn’t Pally. The man who’d come in was almost as tall but he was dark haired, broader in the shoulder and wearing a smart, expensive suit. In his thirties, probably, although it was hard to tell with some blokes. For want of anything better to do, she watched as he went to the counter and ordered a cup of tea. Everything about him screamed gangster – from his clothes, through the way he stood, to the flashy gold watch on his wrist. Soho was full of them.

As he turned around, she quickly averted her eyes and gazed out through the window again. She was aware of him walking in her direction but presumed he was heading for one of the empty tables behind her. The café was quiet and there was plenty of space. It was a surprise, therefore, when he stopped, pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

‘Hello, Liv.’

Liv stared at him, bemused. Had they met before? In a pub, maybe, or in one of the clubs? She didn’t think so. He was the sort you remembered. ‘I’m sorry, but do I … ?’

‘Lincoln,’ he said. ‘Tom Lincoln.’

The name didn’t ring any bells. Frowning, she examined his face more closely – slate-grey eyes, full mouth, a cleft in his chin – before it occurred to her that he was just some bloke on the pickup. ‘Well, Mr Lincoln,’ she said drily, ‘it’s lovely to meet you but I’m actually waiting for someone.’

‘You’ve got time for a chat, then.’

There was something about his tone that unnerved Liv. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’

‘It wasn’t a request.’ Lincoln leaned forward and growled softly, ‘Don Moody has a bone to pick with you.’

Liv’s anxiety levels shot up. Moody was a West End villain with a none-too-pleasant reputation. Not the type of man you wanted to be on the wrong side of. ‘I don’t understand. Why should … I’ve never even met Mr Moody. What are you talking about?’

‘No, but you have met a business associate of his.’

‘Have I?’

‘Mr Hallam.’

Liv stared blankly back. ‘You’ve got the wrong person. I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Perhaps you know him better as George, George Barnes. I believe you made his acquaintance yesterday at the Chesterton Hotel.’

A jolt of alarm passed through Liv and her body stiffened. Suddenly her mouth was dry. A cold knot was twisting in her guts as she tried to hold his gaze – and her nerve. ‘I’ve … I’ve never been to—’

‘Please don’t waste my time, Liv. Or should I call you Nancy? The thing is, Mr Moody isn’t happy. He’s not happy at all. You see, it makes him look bad when someone he’s invited to London, someone he’s hoping to do business with, gets stung by a pair of two-bit con artists.’

Liv could have gone on protesting her innocence, but suspected it was pointless. Somehow Moody had managed to identify her and now wasn’t the moment to try and figure out how. She was in big trouble. Realising that appeasement was probably the best way forward, she gave a rueful smile and said: ‘Well, we weren’t to know George was a friend of Mr Moody’s, were we? It was a genuine mistake. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, you’re sorry. That makes it all right then.’

‘What more can I say?’

‘It’s more what you can do.’ Lincoln drank some of his tea and put the cup back down. ‘We’ll start with the money, shall we?’

Liv hesitated, but then opened her bag, took out her purse, removed the notes, put them on the table and regretfully pushed them towards him.

Lincoln picked up the five notes and frowned. ‘What’s this?’

‘Twenty-five quid.’

‘And the rest?’

‘That’s my half. It’s all there.’

‘Hallam gave you a ton.’

Liv quickly shook her head. ‘No, half a ton. Fifty. I swear. That’s all we got.’

‘Are you calling Hallam a liar?’

‘No, but … ’

‘A ton,’ Lincoln said. ‘That’s how much Mr Moody has returned to Hallam, and that’s how much he wants back.’

Liv didn’t know if Hallam was the liar or Pally was. ‘I can’t give him what I haven’t got.’ To prove her point, she opened her purse again and showed him the inside. ‘Look, nothing else, see? It’s empty. I haven’t got any more.’

Lincoln’s eyes bored into her. ‘You’ve got a problem, then.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Liv promised rashly. ‘I’ll pay him back. I promise. Every penny.’

‘And when will that be, exactly?’

‘As soon as I can, but I need some time. A week or two. But I’ll get it. I will. You can give me a bit of time, can’t you?’ Liv’s voice was pleading. Seeing him unmoved, she quickly hiked up the drama and wiped away an imaginary tear. ‘Please. I really am sorry. We never meant to … I’ll sort it out. I won’t let you down.’

Lincoln studied her for a few seconds and then gave a hollow laugh. ‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘A lovely performance. But if you’re trying to appeal to my better nature, it’s a hopeless cause.’

Liv pulled a face. ‘You can’t blame a girl for trying.’

‘Don’t get smart with me, love.’ Lincoln pushed back his chair, stood up and then leaned down towards her again. ‘I’ll see you soon. One chance, that’s all you’ve got. Oh, and that person you’re waiting for? If it’s Pally I wouldn’t bother. He’s … how shall I put it? … somewhat indisposed at the moment.’

Liv gave a start, her eyes widening. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘Nothing that he didn’t deserve.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Lincoln didn’t reply. He simply smirked, straightened up and walked away.

Liv held her breath and didn’t release it again until after Lincoln had left the café. Shivers were running through her. She leapt to her feet – she had to go in search of Pally – but then immediately sat back down. What if it was a trick? What if they hadn’t found him at all, but were just waiting for her to lead them to him? No, she’d seen the expression on Lincoln’s face. They’d caught up with him all right.

She waited for a couple of minutes, glancing up and down the street to make sure Lincoln was really gone, before standing up again. Her legs felt shaky, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She steadied herself against the table before heading for the door. Pally was out there somewhere and she had to find him.

Ralph McCall had come to the café to work on a piece he was writing for the West End News. The girl had arrived shortly after him and he’d been surreptitiously watching her ever since. She was worth looking at – a slim brunette with dark eyes and a sulky mouth – and now, as she was leaving, his gaze followed her all the way to the door.

He wondered how old she was. Well, old enough to be consorting with villains, that was for sure. There had been a quiet but clearly acrimonious exchange between her and the bloke before she’d handed over some money. Her pimp? Ralph wouldn’t have taken her for a whore, not from the way she was dressed, but appearances could be deceptive. Soho was swimming in ladies of the night; they came in all shapes and sizes and catered for every taste.

Ralph watched the door close behind her, thought about her for a few more seconds and then turned his attention back to his notebook. He scored through a few lines and frowned. It was hard to create any attention-grabbing copy when all you had to work with was the week’s proceedings at the local magistrates’ court: a tedious procession of pickpockets, petty thieves and tarts. What he wanted was something juicy to get his teeth into.

He lit a cigarette and pondered on his career. It wasn’t panning out quite as he’d envisaged. He had peaked too soon, perhaps, getting his first job on the Hackney Herald at the age of eighteen. Within two years he had moved from the East End to the West, believing then that it was only one small step to a position on a national. For ten years he’d been trying, but every time he applied, he got knocked back. Now, with his thirtieth birthday approaching, he was starting to think it would never happen. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with the West End News – it was a weekly paper, published every Thursday, with an average circulation and a modest reputation – but it was hardly cutting edge. He was a man who had ambition and what he needed was a big scoop, an exclusive that would propel him from obscurity into the inner sanctum of Fleet Street.

Ralph pulled on his cigarette and released a long, narrow stream of smoke. He deserved better, he knew he did, but opportunities always seemed to pass him by. Take the latest scandal, for example. Most of London’s crime reporters were currently in Eastbourne where Scotland Yard had been called in to investigate a society doctor called John Bodkin Adams. There were, incredibly, suspicions that he could have murdered over four hundred of his patients. Now that was a story. And who had the editor sent to cover it? Henry bloody Squires, of course.

When Ralph had complained, he’d got short shrift.

‘I can’t afford to send you both,’ Arthur Neames had said. ‘Anyway, you should be grateful. With everyone else out of the way, there won’t be any competition if something big breaks here.’

Which was small consolation. Especially as the chances of anything decent occurring were slim. He felt passed over, ignored, as though all his hard work counted for nothing. Henry’s glory days were long gone, but his reputation endured. Neames wouldn’t get rid of him and for as long as he stayed Ralph would remain in his shadow.

He took a few more resentful puffs on his cigarette before angrily stubbing it out in the ashtray. He gazed across the café and out of the window. Soho was always busy but never more so than on a Saturday night. The place was a cesspit, heaving with pimps, whores, ponces, thieves and gamblers. Temptation lay all around like tiny drops of glittering poison.

He flipped shut his notebook and shoved it into his pocket. It was time to get positive, to put aside his bitterness and make things happen. Soho was full of stories, full of secrets and lies. All he had to do was go out there and dig. What the readers wanted was murder and mayhem, sleaze and depravity – and he was just the man to give it to them.

Liv had been searching for half an hour, visiting all of Pally’s usual haunts. She went in and out of cafés and pubs, asking anyone she recognised if they’d seen him, but the answer was always the same. If she’d known where he lived, she’d have gone there too, but she didn’t have a clue. Pally flitted from place to place, never staying anywhere for long. He wasn’t a man for putting down roots.

As she tramped the streets, she was growing increasingly anxious. What if he was lying in some alleyway, bleeding to death? Should she ring round the hospitals? What if he was already dead? Panic seeped into her. But surely they wouldn’t have gone that far? She reassured herself with the thought that if Mr Moody wanted his money back, he wouldn’t get it by killing Pally.

Eventually she decided to try the French again and headed back to Dean Street. The pub’s real name was the York Minster but none of the regulars ever called it that. Pally had told her it was because Charles de Gaulle had once written a speech there, but she didn’t know if it was true or not. She didn’t even know why she was thinking about it. Just something to distract her, to take her mind off the awfulness of what was happening.

She quickened her pace until she was almost running. Please God, let him be here. The French was his favourite drinking hole, the place to hang out until the clubs opened later in the evening. She girded herself for disappointment as she pushed open the door, but miraculously her prayer was answered. Pally was sitting at the bar with his back to her.

Liv rushed over ‘Pally! God, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I … ’ But reli