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Synopsis
The deadliest criminals of Manchester's murky underworld are back in an explosive new book!
A SISTER'S LOVE
When Fauzia's brother turns up with a dead body, her perfect life is shattered. She'll protect him to the ends of the earth, but who is he running from?
A WOMAN SCORNED
Keisha knows all too well that family comes first. Reeling from rejection, she's determined to make Malton pay. And she'll hurt him in the worst way imaginable.
A DEADLY THREAT
Craig Malton is on the hunt for a violent drug lord who's wreaking havoc and destruction in Manchester. Little does he know what's coming for him...
An action-packed gangland thriller in Manchester's murky underworld - perfect for fans of Martina Cole and Kimberley Chambers.
(P) 2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited
Release date: January 12, 2023
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages: 320
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Pay the Price
Sam Tobin
Standing on the pavement, it was impossible to know the strongroom was even there.
The house itself was one of a row of large, Victorian semi-detached homes on the outskirts of Bolton town centre. To their rear were the densely packed terraces of Daubhill, home to Bolton’s South Asian community. Ahead of them a patchwork of fields and houses slowly fell away as the land climbed up towards Winter Hill, the peak that towered over all of Bolton.
The strongroom lay deep within the footprint of the house. It had no windows facing the outside world, nothing to reveal its presence to the casual observer.
The walls, floor and ceiling of the strongroom had been specially constructed with steel-reinforced concrete. The kind used for bank vaults. It had cost tens of thousands of pounds but set against the value of what was inside the room it was a drop in the ocean.
There was a single way in and out: a heavy, metal door set into an equally sturdy metal frame. The door had no handle inside or out, and on either side of it was an inset keypad. Without the eight-digit combination there was no way to get in or out of the room short of industrial-strength explosives.
The formidable door lay wide open. Someone was inside.
Slow, deliberate footsteps pressed down into the thick, burgundy pile of the carpet as a young woman crept past the exquisitely crafted, bespoke cabinets that lined the room. Made from imported Brazilian hardwoods and finished with a genuine gold trim, each cabinet was glass-fronted to better display its contents.
Racks of solid gold jewellery. Necklaces, earrings and bangles. Hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth. Rows of Rolex watches, each larger and more ostentatious than the last, sitting proudly beside their boxes and certificates of authenticity. All glistening softly beneath spotlights recessed into the ceiling.
The young woman passed them without so much as a second glance. She had something far more valuable in mind.
She wore skinny blue jeans, white trainers and a crop top beneath her knee-length, black padded jacket. The standard uniform of a million northern teenage girls.
Her hair had been scraped atop her head into a tottering bun, which gave a clear view of her face. She had the determined, thickly applied make-up of someone well used to passing for much older than her young years. But beneath the foundation, contouring and darkly painted eyebrows, there was no mistaking that she was barely older than a child.
She had only been in the room once before but it was just as she remembered it. She could never forget the smell. A strong, solvent-clean stink of the brand new. Trapped in the airless room it was overpowering.
Passing through the room something caught her eye. She stopped dead in her tracks.
There on the wall hung a painting. The girl didn’t have to look at the signature to know who painted it. Back before she was permanently excluded, Art was the only subject to ever hold her desperately divided attention. It was an L.S. Lowry. A genuine L.S. Lowry.
She held her breath, in awe to be so close to true genius.
Absent were the painter’s iconic, scratchy figures and crowded terraces. This painting depicted a hillside view across Bolton. A dark church nestled between smoking mills with the city stretching away into a grey horizon broken only by chimney stacks. Bolton had changed immeasurably from when Lowry had sat atop a hill to paint it. The mills and chimneys were long gone. The churches deserted or converted into mosques. But the girl instantly recognised the endless, grey horizon. Some things never change.
Overwhelmed by the beauty of it she reached out, brushing her fingers against the frame, eager to somehow be closer to what she saw.
A noise came from outside. The distinctive sound of Punjabi spoken with a thick Bolton accent. Someone was home. The girl broke away from the painting and turned her attention to what she’d come for.
The safe sat on the floor, no taller than waist height. Unlike the wooden cabinets it was a new addition. It stood out, an ugly afterthought by someone unconvinced by the ample security already on offer.
The girl knelt down, her knees sinking into the soft carpet. The voices were getting louder. She didn’t have much time.
She looked at the back of her hand where two sets of numbers had been scrawled in biro. The first set had got her into the room. The second set she began to quickly punch into the safe.
A small, red light came on. The safe gave a short, sharp buzz and remained closed.
The girl looked down at her hand. She was sweating. The numbers had begun to smudge. She took a breath and moving slower this time, she put the numbers in again. One digit at a time. Check the hand, type the number. Check the hand. Type the number. She willed herself to ignore the voices outside, to forget who it was she was stealing from and what he’d do if he caught her.
She pressed the final number and a small, green light flashed on, to the accompaniment of a satisfyingly solid clicking sound. The safe door swung open.
She was greeted with the sight of stacks and stacks of notes and several velvet bags. Despite the voices outside the room, her curiosity got the better of her and she risked a glimpse inside one of the bags. Dozens of uncut diamonds spilled out. Scattering through her fingers and into the deep pile of the carpet. There was no time to pick them up. She stuffed the bag back in the safe and ignoring the cash and diamonds reached in to take what she had come for. The thing which was more valuable than everything in that entire room combined.
She slipped her prize into the pocket of her padded jacket and, before shutting the safe, pulled out a handkerchief with which she quickly wiped down the keypad and door for prints.
Moving as fast as she dared, she crept out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her, again wiping over every surface she touched.
By the time the heavy, metal door clicked shut she was already halfway out of the window of a downstairs bathroom.
By the time anyone realised what was missing, she had disappeared over that grey, endless horizon and vanished off the face of the earth.
1
The man in the blue shorts swung a leg up and brought it smashing down on the back of the man in the red shorts’ head. Red’s face registered the shock and pain and for a moment he staggered, threatening to fall.
Smelling blood, Blue pressed his advantage, launching a savage cross into Red’s faltering guard.
But Red wasn’t out yet. He leaned back and as Blue’s looping punch missed him, he reached up and grabbed Blue’s extended arm, before pulling him tight to his body and taking them both down to the mat with a well-timed trip.
The fighters’ bodies hit the ground with a sickening thud, blood and sweat splattering across the canvas of the ring.
When it had looked like a swift, violent knock-out the crowd had been on their feet, screaming for satisfaction. Now that the fight had progressed to the slow attrition of grappling, their interest waned and they retook their seats as the monolithic roar died down into the broken hubbub of drunken conversations.
At the back of the room one man remained fixated on the fight, never once taking his eyes off the ring. He sat alone at his table, a glass of water untouched in front of him. His mixed-race complexion marking him out in a room full of white faces. A shaved head and deep scar running down the side of his face. Beneath his waxed jacket he was nearly twice the size of the men fighting in the ring. Craig Malton was here on business.
He had travelled all the way out to Hindley, an unremarkable former mining town on the periphery of Greater Manchester, to witness this fight. Having grown up in Moss Side, anywhere this far out of the city felt like countryside to Malton. Out here he was on his own.
But working alone was how he liked it; it meant that the only people who got hurt were the people who he decided needed to get hurt.
Malton glanced around the town hall where the fight was taking place. Parquet floors and ornate details spoke of an era when, thanks to the Industrial Revolution, Hindley had been prospering. A time long since passed. Nowadays the hall was the kind of place that at the weekend would be hosting a local wedding; folding tables of buffet food, a travelling DJ and everyone having the time of their lives. But on this wet Thursday evening people had been lured out with the promise of violence.
Malton noted the hall had several exits: the double doors that led from the entrance, a couple of doors leading to toilets and another couple leading backstage. Too many escape routes for Malton’s liking. He’d have to be quick.
He turned back to the man he was here to see. The man who was kneeling over his opponent, raining down blows. The man in the red shorts – Bradley Wyke.
Officially Malton ran Malton Security, a firm that ran doors, protected building sites and installed security systems. Unofficially, and if you could afford it, Malton was the man you came to when you needed something looking into. Something that you’d rather the police didn’t know about.
Malton solved crime for criminals. With a mixture of cunning, brute force and a lifetime spent getting to know Manchester’s sordid underbelly, there was nowhere he couldn’t go. Nothing so well hidden he couldn’t drag it kicking and screaming into the light.
He wanted a word with Bradley Wyke and Bradley knew it. He’d not been at his flat this past week and hadn’t turned up to the gym he ran either. But this fight had been booked in for months and Malton was sure that however scared Bradley was, there was no way he’d waste the months of gruelling training. Not to mention the thousand-pound purse on offer to the victor.
Malton felt a buzzing in his pocket. He knew straight away who it would be: the man who was paying him to come all the way out to Hindley on a bleak Thursday evening. The most feared man in all of Manchester – Danny Mitchum.
Danny Mitchum sat at the top of a vast pyramid of criminal ingenuity. He didn’t just oversee the wholesale importation of drugs from both North Africa and Central Europe, he also commanded a sprawling network of middlemen and street dealers. Despite his operation generating millions of pounds a year and being responsible for the majority of drugs sold in Greater Manchester, Danny was also more than happy to get his hands dirty.
Over the past decade – through a combination of fear, respect and extreme violence – Danny Mitchum had become king of the Manchester underworld.
But Danny had got greedy. Word had got out that he’d been stealing from his suppliers – a group of heavy players from Merseyside who went by the affectionate nickname of the Scouse Mafia. The Scouse Mafia were not the sort of people who took kindly to being ripped off.
Danny didn’t wait for the bodies to start piling up. As soon as he found out someone had talked, he’d gone into hiding, tasking Malton with ferreting out who in his organisation had grassed him up.
For the past three months Malton had been wading through Danny’s crew. Men like Bradley. Danny Mitchum worked with the absolute dregs. Serial offenders, domestic abusers, sociopaths and violent alcoholics. Any one of them could have been the leak. It was Malton’s thankless job to find out which one.
Malton hadn’t wanted to take the assignment but he knew well enough that you don’t say no to Danny Mitchum. Ever since taking the case he’d been bombarded day and night by Danny’s calls, most of which he chose to ignore. Danny didn’t text. He couldn’t – he was blind. And so instead he left long, foul-mouthed voice notes, which Malton was forced to trawl through into the early hours.
Malton let the phone in his pocket ring out.
Bradley was on his opponent’s back, his arms and legs hooked around the man’s torso, pinning him to the mat. Blue tried to stagger to his feet, attempting to muscle Bradley off.
Both men were at the peak of physical fitness. Lithe, gym-honed bodies, each covered with tattoos. Blue’s thick legs flexed as he attempted the impossible: raising his own weight and that of the man on his back. For a thrilling moment it looked like he would make it. The crowd rose in volume only to crash into disappointed heckling when the weight proved too much and Blue crashed back down to the mat. Bradley kept his grip and for just a moment looked up from the fight and out into the crowd. Directly into Malton’s eyes.
Malton saw straight away that Bradley knew who he was and why he was there. Bradley froze in the ring. Torn between finishing off his opponent or turning to run. Fight or flight?
The phone in Malton’s pocket started buzzing again.
Bradley made his choice. He loosened his grip on Blue and let the man’s tired arms slip down to his sides. Just what Bradley was hoping for. Without hesitation he started hammering blows into his opponent’s exposed face. The first punch hit so hard that before Blue knew what was happening Bradley had already unloaded half a dozen more punches.
Scenting blood, the crowd rose to its feet and Malton was forced to stand to keep eyes on Bradley. The referee hovered, unwilling to intervene too soon, but it was clear the fight was over. Blue made no attempt to protect himself. His head swung left and right, his neck loosened with each crushing blow.
Finally, the official stepped in and pulled a frenzied Bradley Wyke off what was left of his opponent. He hauled Bradley to his feet, holding his arm aloft in victory.
Malton was already moving towards the ring, effortlessly pushing past the groups of men intoxicated as much with violence as with alcohol.
Bradley was lost in the moment. Soaking up his victory. The crowd bellowed their approval and he bellowed back. The sight of Malton at the apron shook him to his senses. Bradley took a step back, raised his arms and turned to the mob.
‘Let’s have it!’ he shouted.
The effect was instantaneous. As one the crowd surged forward, screaming obscenities and hurling pints high in the air. Malton was powerless to do a thing as hundreds of bodies flooded the ring.
The last Malton saw of Bradley Wyke was his bloody, sweat-stained torso shaking off well-wishers and slipping out through one of the doors that led backstage.
Malton was outside in the car park just in time to see Bradley’s beat-up Mazda tearing away into the evening gloom.
Standing in the damp evening air he began to feel the sweat chilling on his bald head. Freed from the confines of the meeting hall he became aware of the clinging stench of the crowd – beer and BO.
Ignoring the phone that was still ringing in his pocket, Malton got into his racing green Volvo estate and set off back to Manchester. As he drove his resolve began to harden. In his mind he replayed the grind of the past few months, culminating in this latest almighty fuck-up.
By the time he was on the outskirts of the city his mind was made up. He was going to tell the most feared criminal in all of Manchester he was quitting.
As he drove, he imagined how Danny would react to the news. The thought made him smile.
2
Keisha neatly stacked the ten thousand pounds on the table. She’d specifically asked for it in ten-pound notes. Small enough to make the pile look inviting but large enough not to feel like she was offering loose change.
The ten thousand pounds was the trap; everything else was the bait.
Keisha looked around the room. When she’d arrived in this house a couple of months ago it had been semi-derelict. A major benefit of running her husband’s business had been that she had complete control of the money coming in. With him being a hugely prolific drug dealer, that meant a lot of money.
One of the ways she had hidden that money was property. When she had bought the detached house in north Manchester eighteen months earlier she imagined it would be used as a bash house – a discreet place to mix pure drugs with cheaper fillers before sending them down the chain.
But her husband had been dead for three months now. His drug business had been carved up and whatever assets he had were under investigation by Greater Manchester Police.
Keisha had fled, taking with her a few thousand in gold and watches along with the keys to half a dozen properties littered around Manchester and hidden from the law behind various shell companies. Properties just like the one she now found herself in.
She didn’t mourn her husband. It had been fun while it lasted but she always knew one way or another he’d end up in an early grave. It just so happened that she was more than a little responsible for his death. She wasn’t alone in that; she’d roped in an old flame, a man who she hoped might be persuaded to see a future with her. But things hadn’t worked out and so now, before Keisha could start a new life, she had one last thing to do.
A score to settle.
The ten thousand pounds was a down payment on that.
The house was in Harpurhey, an overlooked suburb of north Manchester It was far enough out of the city that at one time it was almost pastoral. The elaborate swimming baths and a smattering of large, country house style homes bore testament to what the area once was before Manchester expanded to engulf it. These days it was a mixture of dense terraces and council estate fringed by parkland, dotted with eccentric Victorian houses in various stages of decay.
Despite being in the middle of Harpurhey, the house was isolated, hidden down a potholed, dirt track that ran parallel to the main road north out of Manchester. It was shielded from view by a verge covered in scrubland and trees. If you didn’t know it was there you’d never find it. That suited Keisha perfectly.
She had done her best to spruce up the one room that was serving as her bedroom, living room and kitchen. She had put rugs down over the bare boards and hung thick curtains over the windows – not that there was anyone around to look in.
At one end of the room, a six-foot-high mirror leaned against a wall next to the double bed, and at the other sat a table and chairs.
It was late May yet a bone-deep cold hung over Manchester. Several fan heaters were scattered about the room, doing their best to make up for the complete lack of heating in the house.
Despite the warmth they generated, a strong smell of damp still hung about the room, with large, black blooms of mould flowering across the ceiling.
Keisha hoped she’d done enough to make things look inviting for her guest. Even if she hadn’t, ten thousand pounds was still ten thousand pounds.
Keisha knew exactly what money could buy you. She’d grown up dirt-poor in Hulme, a suburb of Manchester so unloved it had been levelled not once but twice in living memory. She’d seen the things people would do for money. The humanity they’d give away. She’d watched her mother, a proud Irish woman, try to turn the tide of deprivation. First through residents’ groups and trade unions and then through local politics. But as the Nineties came round, she’d seen how quickly all that hope and trust could be wiped away in the face of money. Drug money.
When Keisha found herself alone and at her lowest ebb she’d made the decision to make sure that from then on it would be her with the money. Her buying and selling people. With a fearless charm and a ruthless ambition, she had thrown herself into the Manchester underworld and risen to a place where she thought that no one would ever be able to touch her.
Her marriage to a notorious criminal had given her the wealth and power she’d always craved, but it wasn’t enough. No matter how powerful she became she never forgot that three decades earlier the one man she’d ever truly loved had walked out on her. A few months ago the chance finally came to win him back. Certain that she could make up for all the lost years, Keisha had done everything in her power to turn back time. She sacrificed her husband, his entire family and nearly lost her own life in the attempt. It wasn’t enough.
After he rejected her yet again, she had made up her mind to destroy him.
Keisha was busy setting up a bottle of wine and two glasses when the sound of someone hesitantly knocking on the door drifted into the room. Keisha rushed over to the mirror and gave herself a last check.
Like most mixed-race women she looked a lot younger than her years. She had flawless brown skin and dark glossy hair that hung down in long, brown curls. She loved her figure and made sure to run several times a week. She never knew when she’d have to run for real.
Rain or shine, indoors or outdoors, Keisha was never without her sunglasses. She wore designer jeans, a baggy grey sweater and a pair of box-fresh New Balance trainers. She didn’t do heels. She wasn’t into looking helpless. She took a last look in the mirror. Her outfit showed off just enough stealth wealth to impress, but when paired with her beaming smile it made her look eminently approachable. She went to meet her guest.
Nearing the front door she paused for just a second beside the only obviously new addition to the house – two heavy security doors. Each secured with a padlock for which only Keisha held the key. Her eyes were drawn to one of the two doors. She held her breath for a moment. Her body tense as if half expecting the door to burst open.
The sound of knocking brought her back to the here and now. ‘I’m coming!’ she shouted.
A young woman stood on the doorstep looking unsure. Like Keisha she was dressed for practicality. Unlike Keisha she looked worn down with it. Tatty, loose-fitting jeans, scuffed-up trainers and a black anorak with a carefully repaired but still visible tear down one side. Her hair was braided tight to her head and her skin was several shades darker than Keisha’s.
‘Diane Okunkwe?’ said Keisha flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Not that Diane would ever know that, thanks to Keisha’s sunglasses.
The woman on the doorstep smiled with relief. Keisha looked past her then and, satisfied that she had come alone, led her inside, closing the door behind her.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Keisha as she shepherded Diane through the hallway. ‘We’re a bit tricky to find out here.’
Diane smiled politely and said nothing.
As they passed through the hallway a loud groan came from behind one of the two locked doors. Keisha saw Diane’s hand grasp the strap of her handbag a little tighter. She sensed the woman’s steps faltering.
Pretending not to have heard a thing, Keisha ushered Diane into the front room. As the door closed behind them Keisha could see Diane had already forgotten all about that groan.
Her eyes were fixed exactly where they were meant to be fixed – on the pile of money.
Keisha walked over to the table and began to unscrew the bottle of wine that sat next to the stack of cash.
‘Sit down, have a drink,’ she said.
Diane didn’t move. She looked around the room. The rugs and curtains. The giant mirror and the bed. The suitcases and floor heaters. Keisha could tell she was trying to work out just what anyone was doing living like this.
Keisha kept smiling, her focus on Diane, silently urging her towards the table. Diane took a chair and sat down, trying her best not to stare at the pile of money. Keisha knew it was more than she’d ever seen in her life.
Keisha was in the middle of pouring out the wine when another loud groan reverberated through the house.
This time Diane was unable to hide her reaction. They both knew she’d heard it. Keisha kept pouring.
Again it came. Louder this time. A human sound of slow, unbearable pain.
Diane was on her feet, ready to leave.
Seeing her fear, Keisha reached over the table and grabbed Diane’s wrist. Diane gasped with shock at the strength of her grip.
The groaning carried on. It sounded more intense, more urgent.
Keisha fixed Diane through her dark glasses. ‘You came here for a job, yes?’
Diane was too scared to answer so Keisha carried on regardless.
‘A job to earn money to send back to your family in Ghana? Your mother, your father. The operation he needs?’
Keisha watched as this information lit the fuse of Diane’s paranoia. Who was this woman? What else did she know about her family?
‘Ten thousand pounds,’ said Keisha, nodding towards the pile of money. Finally Diane let herself look over at the cash. She drank it in.
Sickening screaming now filled the house. Keisha held her nerve.
‘It’s yours. And all I want are three things,’ she said.
‘I cannot,’ said Diane, trying hard to muster the strength to flee.
Ignoring her protests Keisha continued. ‘Firstly, I want your cleaning job. The one you just got. On Monday you are to stay away and I’ll go in your place.’
Diane was barely listening. Keisha could see the panic overwhelming her. But still she held her wrist tight.
‘Secondly, I want your name. Your identity. I want to turn up as you. Tell them I’m you. Diane Okunkwe.’
Diane looked worried. ‘You do not look like me. You are . . . not black.’
Keisha had half expected this. As a mixed-race woman she was more than used to hearing it.
‘Where you work, it’s white people. Rich white people. You’re Ghanaian. I’m a mixed-race Mancunian. Far as rich white people are concerned, we’re all black.’
Diane laughed. The two women shared a lifetime of experience without saying a word.
‘You said three things?’ said Diane. The fear had left her voice.
Keisha knew she had her now. At the sound of yet another moan she let go of Diane’s wrist, turned away and shouted, ‘Shut up or I’m coming in there!’
Instantly the screaming stopped, melting away to muffled whimpers.
Keisha turned back to Diane. ‘Three, I want you to disappear. I don’t care where you go, but you go. You take the ten thousand pounds on the table and you vanish. Do we have a deal?’
Diane took another look at the notes and Keisha knew exactly what her answer would be.
Watching Diane leave with the money, Keisha felt a little swell of satisfaction. She always got what she wanted. And right now what she wanted more than anything was to destroy the man who’d wronged her.
Craig Malton.
3
Dean Carter’s mouth began watering as the man at Maxie’s Desserts placed two plates down in front of him. Each plate had on it a giant waffle drenched in chocolate sauce, M&Ms and chopped nuts. As if that wasn’t enough, half a dozen scoops of ice cream ringed each plate, each scoop topped with a Maxie’s Desserts branded wafer. Finally, lashings of whipped cream encircled each scoop and covered what little waffle had escaped the chocolate sauce.
Dean nodded approvingly and the man returned behind the counter.
Then he got to work. First, he arranged the plates. One on each side of the table, as if two people were about to sit down to eat. Resisting the urge to steal a swipe of ice cream, Dean took out his phone and spent a good couple of minutes arranging and taking photos of the food.
From behind the counter the man watched approvingly. Everything about Maxie’s was set up to be photographed. From the bright pink colour scheme to the extravagantly topped desserts. It wasn’t enough for something to taste good anymore. Customers wanted their food to look good too. Social media was watching.
That was exactly what Dean was doing. Uploading his posts to social media. But not to his own profile. First, he went to Facebook, then Twitter, then Instagram, TikTok and even YouTube. He uploaded a photo or video with the caption ‘treatz wiv bae’ to each platform on a profile he’d set up – Dobbzbobbz. He made sure that in every photo the logo of Maxie’s Desserts was clearly visible both on the waffles and on the wall in the background.
With all the posts uploaded, Dean got up, went to the counter, paid for his food and promptly walked out of the shop leaving both plates of food untouched.
As he sat in his car across the road from Maxie’s he could hear his stomach rumbling. But he couldn’t risk spending a second longer back in the café. Not if his plan was about to come off.
Maxie’s sat in a narrow row of terraced houses just off a main road. From where he was parked he watched as customers went in and out of the shop. A family with children. A group of young girls. A couple. All of them South Asian. After all he was in Daubhill.
Daubhill, or Dobble as the locals pronounced it in their cheery Boltonian accent, used to be home to thousands of millworkers. As the jobs in the mills dwindled the white workforce was replaced with recently arrived immigrants from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. When the mills closed they had stayed and made the area their own.
Dean stood out a mile. Bad enough he was white. But he was tall with it. In an attempt to convey a little gravity he wore a suit. It had the exact opposite effect. He looked like a schoolboy, gangly and fresh-faced – apart from the livid, circular scar he’d recently acquired on his left cheek. What’s more he didn’t speak a word of Urdu or Punjabi. He didn’t even have a Bolton accent.
None of this would have been a problem except for the fact that Dean wasn’t in Daubhill for fun – although in the three months he’d spent scouring the area he’d become quite fond of the place. He had a job to do. A girl was missing and he’d promised to bring her home. Her name was Olivia. But besides her photo all he had to go on was the name of her boyfriend, a major Bolton gangster known only as Big Wacky. Daubhill was his turf.
Dean had never done
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