Then what?

  I want him to acknowledge what he is – what he’s done.

  Same as Dr Phillips? You wanted him to acknowledge, except, it didn’t end like that, did it?

  That wasn’t my fault.

  Lou’s laughter burned inside his skull.

  As he neared the pub, and the crowd of office workers, every breath wheezed in his chest. He forced back the coughing, not wanting to alert Hartley just yet.

  The workers went into the pub, apart from Hartley.

  He stood there, checking his phone, thumb swiping with practised ease. Probably sanctioning someone else right now.

  Your Universal Credit standard allowance will be reduced by thirteen pounds ten pence per day for ninety-one days, effective immediately.

  Graham drew closer.

  Why aren’t you going in?

  A metre behind the bastard now. A plume of vapor rose around the short, squat man.

  The scent hit him – strawberry.

  Hartley had phoned to reduce his Universal Credit, then come to a pub where two pints cost more than a day’s sanctioned benefits and was now vaping strawberries.

  Graham coughed and Hartley turned. They stared at each other.

  Now what, Graham? Lou asked. You have what you want. You and him within spitting distance.

  I’ll ask him: How do I help my daughter with no money? How do I get her to appointments with no petrol? How do I keep her warm when I can’t pay the heating?

  So, what are you waiting for?

  ‘Can I help you, mate? Jesus Christ—’ Hartley covered his nose. Not willing to mask his discomfort. Compassionate as always.

  Graham opened his mouth to ask those questions but all that came out was: ‘Reference number YRK-3847-GDB.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Reference number YRK-3847-GDB.’

  Recognition dawned on Hartley’s face. ‘Graham? Graham Blanks?’

  Graham nodded.

  ‘Bloody hell, you look… Are you all right? You smell like—’ He stopped himself. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Laughter erupted as someone opened the pub door. Graham caught a glimpse of the warm interior – brass fixtures gleaming, fire crackling in the hearth. The door swung shut. A young couple brushed past them, giving them a wide berth.

  Dennis was looking him up and down. There was no fear, just mild annoyance mixed with disgust. The look you’d give a persistent fly.

  Hartley continued to vape, using it as a barrier between them.

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ He didn’t look concerned.

  ‘Your colleague. Behind you on the phone. Said about Steve’s leaving do.’

  Hartley snorted. ‘Christ. Ha! Unprofessional.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t you be saying anything.’

  ‘I want to⁠—’

  Hartley silenced him with his hand. ‘I can’t discuss your case outside office hours. You know that.’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘Then what? You’ve followed me here to what – intimidate me?’

  ‘Are you intimidated?’

  ‘Ha… no! You think you’re the first? I’ve had people wait outside my house, mate. Outside my kids’ school.’

  ‘Maybe you should be intimidated this time.’ Shit, he wished, so desperately, he still had the knife. He’d felt so powerful before with Ron back at the centre.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My daughter is sick.’

  ‘You’ve mentioned her. Multiple times.’ Hartley took another drag of strawberry vapor.

  ‘So why sanction me?’

  ‘The rules don’t change because⁠—’

  ‘It’s cruel.’

  ‘The system is the system. Three missed appointments trigger an automatic⁠—’

  ‘Cold. Can you not reconsider?’

  There goes your dignity, Lou said.

  His ex-wife was right. ‘You’re making me beg.’

  ‘I’m not making you do anything. Look.’ Hartley sighed. ‘I’ve got to go. Put in the Mandatory Reconsideration. Include all the evidence regarding your daughter. The review team might⁠—’

  ‘Four to six weeks.’

  ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Are you?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Four to six weeks,’ Graham repeated.

  ‘That’s not my problem.’ The words came out sharp, then Hartley seemed to catch himself for once. He rolled his eyes. ‘Look, it’s not something I can control even if I wanted to. It’s all automated now anyway. Computer says no, and all that.’

  That’s when Graham saw it. The truth naked on Hartley’s bland face.

  You see it, don’t you? Lou insisted.

  The thought was repulsive.

  He’s going to enjoy telling this story inside, Lou continued. In fact, he’s already composing it as he looks at you with pity and disgust. ‘You’ll never guess who ambushed me outside… that nutter from this morning’s sanctions. Looked like death warmed up.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Graham said.

  ‘Stop what?’ Hartley asked.

  They’ll laugh. Buy him drinks. Pat him on the shoulder. Say things like ‘Poor Dennis, dealing with the dregs.’

  This feels different to the doctor.

  Because it is. Here, there is no point in words. They won’t change him. And threats won’t do anything, either.

  ‘I can see that now,’ Graham said.

  ‘You’re losing it, mate,’ Hartley said.

  Words won’t change him, Lou continued. Threats won’t matter. Dennis Hartley will go back inside, finish his evening, go home to his heated house, sleep soundly. Tomorrow he’ll reduce someone else’s payment. The day after, someone else’s. A production line of despair, and he was just a well-fed, content cog who vaped strawberries.

  Graham’s fists clenched.

  The pub door opened again. Two men stumbled out, already drunk at three in the afternoon. They barged past, one of them shoulder-checking Graham.

  ‘Watch it, you smelly bastard,’ one slurred.

  Graham took steps away from Hartley.

  Coward, Lou said. No knife, and you lose your balls.

  He lifted his fists.

  Hartley raised an eyebrow. ‘You got the energy to swing?’

  Pathetic, Lou said.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Graham said.

  ‘No, you fuck off,’ Hartley said.

  Graham unclenched his fists, and made it ten yards down Micklegate.

  Well that was ridiculous⁠—

  ‘Just shut up!’

  A couple gave him a strange look as they passed.

  He paused and noticed a middle-aged woman close by. Wool coat, sensible shoes. She was standing by a silver Vauxhall Astra, fumbling in her purse by a parking meter. The car door was ajar, the interior light on.

  He drew closer.

  The engine was still running.

  His eyes flicked between the idling car and the woman digging for coins.

  The world beats you down and you can’t fight back, Lou said.

  ‘You want to see fight?’ Graham said and went to the driver’s side of the Astra.

  The woman turned at the sound of his question; her mouth opened in shock. He climbed into the vehicle, closed the door, locked it. It was an automatic, so he slipped it into drive.

  The woman banged on the window.

  He dropped the handbrake and accelerated. The car was picking up speed faster than his own, which would still be clamped back near the souvenir shop.

  He felt the caffeine, the medicine and the surging car rushing through him. The adrenaline made him feel alive again, as he’d done earlier with that misogynistic Viking… with Clive… and Dr Phillips.

  The woman screamed.

  He saw Hartley. He’d come further away from the entrance to Henry VII to see what the commotion was.

  Graham mounted the pavement. Hartley’s eyes widened.

  You scared now?

  Hartley started to back away, but it was too late now. Graham had picked up speed. The cold bastard was too slow – too many years behind desks ruining lives, too many good meals at the expense of those suffering.

  Soft and slow.

  ‘Enough,’ Graham said as the Astra’s front corner caught Hartley at hip height. The impact folded him over the bonnet with a wet crack. His head bounced off the windscreen, leaving a spider web of cracks and blood.

  He slowed, and Hartley remained limp on the bonnet.

  Screams erupted on Micklegate.

  Hartley was somehow lifting his bloodied head.

  Graham slammed the car into reverse and surged back.

  Hartley slipped from the bonnet.

  He shifted the car into drive again, while watching the bastard trying to crawl away.

  ‘I said enough.’

  He accelerated again.

  The wet crunch was definitive. The front of the car lifted, came down and then clipped some railings. He stopped.

  Dennis would be under the car.

  Graham pushed it into reverse again. The front lifted again and thudded back down.

  He moved to first gear, swung around the bloody mess on Micklegate and accelerated away.

  The screaming and shouting was intense.

  Graham shook his head. Once upon a time, people had drunk ale while watching executions.

  Now, when the street ran with blood and justice was swift and brutal, they couldn’t stomach it.

  It’d be there inside all of them.

  Buried.

  Hopefully, this would help them remember.

  Graham drove without direction, taking random turns until the sirens were far behind him.

  33

  With a dying patch of grass, wheelie bins askew, and curtains drawn tight against the world, Graham Blanks’s bungalow wasn’t out of place in the February gloom.

  Riddick checked his phone. No signal. A dead zone.

  Figures…

  The front door was solid UPVC, the kind installed by councils in the early 2000s. Security bolts visible.

  They knocked, but as expected, there was no response.

  ‘Round the back?’ Frost suggested.

  ‘Wait.’ He tried the handle. It turned and they exchanged glances.

  Unlocked doors weren’t unheard of. People popped to neighbours, forgot to lock up. Or left through the back door and forgot to secure the front, but it was still unusual.

  ‘Trap?’ Frost whispered.

  ‘In a rush? He’s sick… might have just forgotten or…’

  ‘Past caring?’

  ‘You’re developing an uncanny knack for finishing my thoughts,’ he said. ‘Be careful though… someone might still be inside.’

  The door creaked open, releasing a wave of damp air. The stench of rotting food hit them immediately.

  ‘Hello?’ Riddick called into the gloom.

  He waited. Nothing.

  ‘Police!’

  Still nothing.

  They entered onto torn carpet. A wheelchair sat abandoned in the hallway, an NHS property tag still attached.

  Riddick ran a finger over the handles and showed Frost the dust on his fingertips.

  ‘Months,’ he said quietly.

  The kitchen was through the first door – dishes piled high, mould creeping across abandoned plates. A child’s drawing clung to the fridge with a magnet: Me and Daddy xx written in crayon.

  The paper had yellowed at the edges, curling away from the fridge door.

  On the table, a pile of scrunched tissues surrounded two boxes of flu remedy capsules.

  Frost’s eyes found his, her concern evident. ‘Those tissues look fresh. He’s been here recently.’

  ‘I won’t touch anything,’ he assured her, already regretting handling the wheelchair. ‘But if his daughter really is sick and awaiting a transplant, these conditions…’

  ‘Would kill her,’ Frost finished.

  The living room was worse. Empty takeaway containers covered every surface – sofa, coffee table, windowsills. The smell of rotting food mixed with something medicinal.

  In the corner, a dialysis machine lurked beneath a white sheet like furniture in an abandoned house. Boxes of supplies stacked beside it: tubing sets, needles, saline bags.

  Frost examined the labels. ‘These expired six months ago.’

  ‘The wheelchair, now this.’ He studied the untouched equipment. ‘Either Lucy hasn’t needed treatment in months, or…’

  ‘She’s getting it elsewhere?’

  ‘Or not at all.’

  The room at the end of the hall stopped them both.

  Pink walls. Stuffed animals arranged with mathematical precision on the bed. Books lined up by height. Bed made with hospital corners. A complete contrast to the chaos they’d walked through.

  Despite his promise not to touch anything, Riddick ran his finger across the bedside table and held it up. Clean.

  ‘Even smells different in here,’ Frost said softly. ‘Like he’s been using air freshener, cleaning products.’

  ‘He lives in squalor but maintains this room like a shrine.’

  ‘If she was still living here, she’d have to walk through that biohazard to leave the house. No parent who cared enough to keep this room spotless would allow that.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ He pulled out his phone again. ‘The NHS should have responded by now, but there’s no signal.’

  Frost checked hers. ‘Dead too.’

  ‘Tang Hall’s always been a black spot – too far from the towers, too low priority for upgrades.’

  They lingered in Lucy’s room, perhaps because it was the only space that didn’t assault their senses. Photos covered one wall: Lucy through the years. A healthy toddler becoming a tired-looking child. Then gaps in the timeline. The most recent photos showed brief moments of colour returning to her cheeks – Lucy beside a Christmas tree, Lucy holding a ‘Happy New Year’ sign.

  ‘When do you think these were taken?’ Frost asked.

  ‘The Christmas one… look at the decorations in the background. That style of tinsel hasn’t been in shops for years.’

  ‘One more room,’ she said, nodding towards the door opposite. ‘His bedroom, presumably.’

  The door was locked.

  ‘Interesting priorities,’ Riddick said, finding the key on top of the doorframe. ‘Can’t secure his front door but locks his bedroom?’

  He turned the key and pushed the door open. The smell hit them first – stale sweat and something else, something chemical.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he breathed.

  ‘What is it?’ Frost asked, stepping beside him.

  They both stared at what Graham Blanks had locked away.

  34

  After reaching Tang Hall, Graham abandoned the Astra in a quiet residential street he knew well.

  He looked at the dented, blood-stained bonnet and considered wiping down the door handle, wheel and gear shift with a tissue he plucked from his pocket.

  Are you serious? Lou said.

  He heard the thrum of a helicopter overhead.

  I think we’re past that point, don’t you?

  He left the keys in the ignition and walked away.

  Graham ducked through the gap between number 42 and 44. He’d used the shortcut a thousand times before. The caffeine and tablets had taken the edge off his fever, and at least his vision had cleared enough to keep him upright, rather than bouncing off the walls.

  So, what now Graham? Going to kill everyone who’s ever wronged you? If I remember right from our marriage, that’s a lot of people. Everyone pissed you off.

  ‘No, I just need to get Stripes.’ His breath came in wet rasps.

  You’re being ridiculous.

  ‘I’ll get Stripes from home for Lucy, she’ll know who I really am then. She’ll remember that she needs me…’

  She needs a father who isn’t a murderer.

  The back gardens blurred; Mrs Patel’s washing line, the Johnsons’ broken trampoline. Normal things from his normal life, before everything went wrong.

  The helicopter circled close by.

  They’ll be at the house soon, if not already.

  ‘I know.’

  Then what the hell are you doing?

  ‘I told you.’ The words came out desperate, fevered. ‘Stripes.’

  A stuffed toy?

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  He emerged onto his own street, keeping his head down until he reached his bungalow.

  When he reached his doorstep, the first thing he noticed was that his door was ajar. The second thing he noticed were the low voices from inside.

  You’ve really gone and done it now.

  He sighed.

  So aren’t you going to run?

  He shook his head and went inside. ‘Stripes.’

  35

  Newspaper cuttings covered every inch of every wall.

  Overlapping; layered; recent ones pasted over old. The headlines screamed from every direction:

  NHS Waiting Lists Hit Record High – Cancer Patients Dying Waiting for Treatment

  Universal Credit Sanctions Drive Families to Food Banks

  Private Healthcare Profits Soar While NHS Struggles

  Sections were highlighted in different colours. Red pen annotations crawled across margins. Post-it Notes flagged certain images like evidence markers.

  Housing Crisis: 2,000 Homeless While Luxury Flats Remain Empty

  Mental Health Services Cut by 30% Despite Rising Suicide Rates

  ‘Christ,’ Frost breathed.

  ‘The government’s wall of shame,’ Riddick murmured.

  ‘This is… obsessional.’

  Gardner’s investigation wall flashed through his mind – Yorke had described it months back. Emma had covered her spare room with connections between her brother, Fairweather and whoever else she could link to the whole conspiracy. But that had been the careful curation of investigation.

  This was different. This was rage distilled into newsprint.

  Child Poverty Rises to Highest Level in Decade

  Council Spends £2M on Tourism While Closing Libraries