Akhtar cringed as he recognized himself. Had Mika set this all up? Had she hidden a camera when they’d been making love? He looked up at her and she shook her head silently. This was nothing to do with her.

The gunman switched off the TV and the room fell quiet once again. ‘I have more than an hour of footage taken on three separate occasions, showing you in various acts with Miss Donovic here, all of them as explicit as this. Some of them even more so.’ The gunman chuckled. ‘But then you knew that, didn’t you? If you don’t carry out the task, I’ll have copies of the footage delivered to your wife, your mother, and the imam at your mosque.’ He calmly reeled off the names of all three, and the addresses to which the copies would be sent. All of them were correct.

Akhtar felt his breathing increase and he began to tremble. If this happened, his life would be finished. No one would forgive him for such a rank betrayal of everything his community held dear. He’d be shunned. Exiled. Worst of all, his children would grow up knowing the terrible, sordid sins he’d committed.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he whispered.

‘It’s a very simple job that will take you less than an hour. You’re to deliver that’ – he pointed to a plain black backpack sitting on the floor next to the fleabitten sofa – ‘to the address on the contacts section of this phone.’ He dropped a BlackBerry into Akhtar’s lap. ‘It’s a twenty-minute drive from here, half an hour if the traffic’s bad. You need to be there for eight a.m., and I know you’ve got a TomTom in your car, so if you leave now you’ll make it on time. Park right outside, then as soon as you’re ready to go in, call me immediately. Do you understand?’

Akhtar nodded. He had no idea how this man knew so much about him, but the fact that he did made it imperative that he did what he was told. Then perhaps he could emerge from this nightmare unscathed and go back to living his life again. He would miss Mika – God, he would miss her – but in the end it would be a very small price to pay.

The gunman lowered his weapon and took a step backwards, motioning for Akhtar to get to his feet.

Pocketing the BlackBerry without even checking the address, he grabbed the backpack and hauled it over one shoulder, surprised at its weight. He wondered what was inside. Initially he’d thought it would be drugs, but it was far too heavy for that.

The gunman seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Under no circumstances look inside that bag, Mr Mohammed. However tempted you are. Because if I find out you have – and I will find out – then our agreement’s void, and I’ll carry out my threat.’

The gunman stepped aside and Akhtar walked past him. He glanced briefly at Mika, and she gave him a hopeful look back.

‘Please do what he says,’ she whispered. ‘He means it.’

‘I will,’ said Akhtar, opening the door and stepping out into the gloom. ‘I promise.’

But not for you, he thought. For me.

Two

08.00

MARTHA CROSSMAN OPENED the door to her local coffee shop and stepped inside.

The place was busy with the pre-work crowd – mainly businesspeople – and a powerful blast of coffee, conversation and central heating hit her straight away. The normality of the scene filled her with an intense jealousy. When Martha had last been here a few days ago, her life had seemed so normal and straightforward. Not happy – she hadn’t been happy for a long time – but at least back then she hadn’t been burdened by the secret she was now carrying.

She took a deep breath. She wanted to throw up. To run out of the café, find a cold, quiet spot where no one could see her, and vomit up the few scrappy contents of her stomach. If it wasn’t for her daughter, she’d end it all. There was no question. What had happened – what she’d found out – was so devastating that, in one single stroke, it had destroyed her will to live. But Lucy – dear, beautiful Lucy – was what kept her going.

That, and the need for justice to be done.

The man she was meeting, Philip Wright, was already there, sitting in a booth in the far corner next to the gleaming silver coffee machines on the counter, facing the door, with a large cup of coffee in front of him. She recognized him from the photos straight away, and it was clear he recognized her too. He gave a small nod, and she tried a smile in return as she walked over.

‘Mrs Crossman, it’s good to meet you,’ he said, getting up from his seat and shaking her hand. He was a big man in his early sixties, and his grip was firm.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she said, taking off her coat and sitting down opposite him.

‘Can I get you a drink of anything?’ he asked. He had a gentle demeanour, and for the first time in days she felt her burden beginning to lighten.

‘I’m OK for the moment, thanks.’

‘You said on the phone that it was extremely urgent.’

She looked round the room, making sure no one was watching her. ‘It is.’

‘I have to admit, I’m surprised. As you know, my expertise isn’t in an area where urgency tends to be an issue. And as we don’t know each other, I’m assuming this isn’t something to do with my personal life.’

‘It’s not. It’s your professional opinion I need.’

He wrinkled his brow, still not quite understanding. ‘Well, ask away.’

She put down her handbag but kept it close to her. It made her feel sick knowing what it contained, but at some point she was going to have to give it to him, otherwise there was no evidence. She looked him straight in the eye, saw a warm intelligence there, coupled with many years’ experience in what he did, and felt reassured.

Leaning forward in her seat, she started talking, keeping her voice low.

Three

08.03

AKHTAR MOHAMMED PULLED up on double yellow lines several yards past his destination. The traffic had been bad and he was three minutes late. He still couldn’t believe what was happening to him. It was like being stuck right in the middle of a nightmare.

He stared at the backpack on the passenger seat next to him, desperate to know what was inside, but not daring to look. He was scared out of his wits. He just wanted to get this thing delivered so he could get on with his life again, but he also knew it might contain something bad – something that could get him into even more trouble.

He cursed himself for ever getting involved with Mika. He cursed himself for—

The BlackBerry he’d been given started ringing, the ringtone a blaring horn. Akhtar spent a few seconds trying to find it with shaking hands before pulling it out of his back pocket. He pressed the green answer button.

‘Where the hell are you?’ demanded the gunman. ‘I told you that you needed to be there by eight o’clock.’

‘I’m here now,’ said Akhtar. ‘I’ve just parked.’

‘Tell me the street, and the name of the shop next door to the right.’

Akhtar looked round hurriedly. ‘I’m on Wilton Road. Just behind Victoria Station. There’s a hairdresser’s to the right of the coffee shop.’

‘Good. Now I want you to stay on the phone while you go inside the coffee shop with the backpack. And I want you to act completely normally.’

Keeping the phone to his ear, Akhtar picked up the backpack with his free hand and pulled it over one shoulder. ‘OK,’ he said, getting out of his car and walking unsteadily over to the coffee shop door. His legs felt weak and he could hear his heart beating in his chest as he stood to one side to let two smartly dressed young women in the middle of a lively conversation come out with their takeaway coffees.

‘I’m going in now,’ he continued, squeezing through the door with his rucksack, the heat and noise of the place hitting him right in the face. The place was busy with commuters ordering their caffeine fixes, but he hardly saw them. They were just a blur.