PROLOGUE

 

Hanley Working men’s club Glass Street, Stoke on Trent March 2024

The Working Men’s Club in Glass Street was a nostalgic time capsule, its decor firmly rooted in the 1970s. Wood-panelled walls, orange and brown patterned carpets, and dim lighting gave the room a warm, albeit dated, ambiance. Bunting and balloons adorned the space, marking the occasion with cheerful colours. On the large stage at the end of the room, Soul Express, a band of gentlemen in their mid-sixties, performed energetic covers of soul, disco, and Motown hits, occasionally slipping in an ‘80s classic for good measure

    Former Detective Inspector Tom Blake stood at the entrance, taking it all in. The room was filled with the familiar faces of his colleagues, who had gathered to celebrate his early retirement. The air was thick with camaraderie and the scent of decades-old upholstery.

Sergeant Williams was the first to spot him. ‘Oi, Boss! Over here, you old bugger!’ he bellowed, raising a pint.

Blake chuckled and made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and accepting pats on the back. DS John Murphy and DS Roger Brogan, partners in crime solving and in pranks, were already a few drinks in, their laughter echoing through the hall.

‘Remember that time I chased that kid through Hanley Park after he totalled that Audi TT with a boot full of heroin?’ Murphy said, reminiscing.

‘I thought you were gonna croak it. Daisy cutting through the flowerbeds at full pelt,’ Blake grinned.

Murphy sniggered, ‘I got him in the end though.’

‘He was never going to get away with a fifteen stone copper sitting on his legs,’ Blake sniggered.

‘Remember that junkie trying to rob the Lloyds Bank with a water pistol in his pocket?’ Williams added, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

‘You couldn’t make it up. What a clown. He actually thought he’d get a slap on the wrist because it wasn’t a real firearm,’ Blake said.

‘Who remembers hoover pipe man?’ Haynes said. ‘We walked into this fella’s living room in Bentilee, and there he is, bent over like a bloody teapot.’ Haynes exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Says he “fell on it.” Yeah, mate, course you did.’

The group burst into laughter.

Haynes continued, ‘The paramedics tried to defuse the situation by asking if he wanted it removed or just switched to “blow”.’ Haynes wiped away tears of laughter. ‘The politically correct brigade would go into overdrive nowadays.’

‘Honestly, you’d think manufacturers of household appliances would add a “Not For Anal Use” warning.’ Murphy shook his head, deadpan.

‘The best bit? Bloke tried to bill it to his home insurance.’ Haynes folded his arms. ‘Classed it as “accidental damage”.’

This brought another round of laughter.

‘I’ve got one for you,’ Brogan said, ‘Picture Hanley early doors, about 8 a.m. We get a call to say there was a pensioner taking a dump in public. PC Belsham, god rest his soul, and me turn up, expecting some old alcoholic—nope, just an old fella dropping his breakfast outside Greggs like a dog marking its territory.’ PC Brogan gagged at the memory.

 ‘Belsham asked him why—dead serious, he goes, ‘It’s too far to walk to the gents in the Potteries Shopping Centre, and I don’t trust them public bogs.’ Brogan exhaled. ‘What can you to say to that?’

‘Can you lads remember that flasher getting his todger trapped in a door?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Is it me, or have you pair had all the best shouts?’ Murphy said.

‘Mate, I’ve seen a lot in this job, but watching a naked man do the Macarena in agony? That’s going in my memoirs. A flasher whipped his knob out in Shoe Zone and a woman, didn’t just slam the door on it—she exorcised it,’ Bailey winced. ‘We found his crown jewels dangling out like a butcher’s special. Poor sod’ll be pissing in two directions for the rest of his life.’

Blake coughed, barely holding back laughter as he excused himself and made his way over to the bar.

DS Alyson Read and DS Moore were deep in conversation by the bar, sharing their own stories of late-night stakeouts and close calls. Blake, PC Emerson and DC Chris Longsdon joined them, quickly turning the discussion into a lively debate about who had the best arrest record.

Over near the stage, PC Haynes had grabbed Family Liaison Officer, Sue Collins and was busting some moves to Soul Express’s rendition of "Disco Inferno by The Tramps." Their carefree movements were infectious, drawing more officers to the dance floor. Office manager and notorious ladies’ man, Nick Pemberton, was already spinning one of the younger female PCs around, his charm as potent as ever.

Disclosure Officer Luciano Petrucci and Police Surgeon Felix Wimberely Smithson stood by the buffet table, engaged in a surprisingly animated conversation about the best local pubs.

Blake moved through the crowd, each conversation a reminder of the bonds he had formed over the years. The music, the laughter, the shared stories – it all felt like a fitting tribute to a career spent in the thick of it.

Eventually, the band took a break, and Sergeant Williams grabbed the microphone. ‘Alright, alright, settle down, you lot. Time for the man of the hour to say a few words. DI Tom Blake, get your arse up here.’

Blake took to the stage to a round of applause and a few good-natured catcalls. He looked out at his team – his friends – and felt a lump in his throat.

‘Thank you, everyone,’ he began, his voice steady but full of emotion. ‘When I started this job, I never imagined it would be this hard to leave. We've been through a lot together. We’ve seen the worst of humanity, but we’ve also seen the best and despite cuts and public contempt, we’ve made a difference. And that’s something to be proud of.’

He paused, letting his words sink in. ‘I've been lucky to work with some of the best people I've ever known. John, Roger, Alyson, Moore, Casey, Chris, Haynes, Sue, Nick, Luciano, Felix, Williams and everyone else – all of you have made this job worthwhile.’

The room was silent, all eyes on Blake. ‘It's not the cases or the arrests I'll remember the most. It's the moments in between. The laughs, the late-night takeaways, and the support we gave each other when things got tough. That's what I'll carry with me.’

He raised his glass. ‘To all of you. Thank you for everything. And don't think for a second that retirement means you won’t see me around. I'm just a phone call away.’

The room erupted in cheers, and Blake felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. He stepped down from the stage, and the party resumed with renewed energy.

The night wore on with more dancing, drinking, and coppers anecdotes. As the clock ticked towards midnight, Blake found himself on the dance floor, surrounded by his team, swaying to the soulful sounds of Soul Express.

In that moment, he knew that while he was leaving the force, the bond he shared with his colleagues was something that would never retire.

 

CHAPTER 1  

 

Aberffraw Beach, Isle of Anglesey, North Wales October 2024

The beach was eerily quiet under the faint light of the crescent moon, as the dark waves rolled in like an endless sigh before Ryan Garrick. The icy wind bit at his skin, as he stood on the damp sand, his breathing shallow, and his movements stiff.

He slipped off his trainers first, the soles making a soft squelch as he placed them neatly beside him. His socks came next, peeled off and set just inside the scuffed white Puma’s. He hesitated for a moment, staring down at them. His dad used to nag him about getting new ones, but what was the point?

Ryan rubbed his hands together, more out of habit than warmth, and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. The cold air rushed against his bare arms, and he shivered. He dropped the jumper onto the sand and reached for his wallet, pulling it out of his jeans pocket. Inside was the photograph of him and his dad—the two of them grinning ear to ear, their bond unbreakable, or so it had once seemed.

For a moment, he just stared at the picture, the weight of it crushing him. With a shaky breath, he slipped the wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and fumbled with the folded piece of paper he’d brought.

Dear Dad,

I’m so sorry. I can’t take this debt and persecution from those rich bastards anymore. This is the only way out. So sorry. I love you.

Ryan.

The note felt heavier than the cold pressing down on him. He folded it carefully, tucking it alongside the wallet. He didn’t read it again—couldn’t.

Ryan unclasped his belt and slipped out of his jeans, leaving them on the sand with the rest of his clothes. His hands were shaking now, the cold and adrenaline working against him. When he finally stood in just his boxers, he stepped closer to the water. The wet sand sank beneath his feet, each step sluggish and deliberate.

Behind him, the pile of clothes sat still, a silent witness under the moonlight.

***

At 8 a.m. the next morning, a child’s voice echoed across Aberffraw beach, distant but clear.

‘Mummy, look!’ she shouted pointing toward a pile of clothes near the shoreline, her mother trailing behind her, their silhouettes faint against the dim winter light.

‘Stay back,’ the mother called her voice sharp. She pulled out her phone, her fingers fumbling against the keypad.

‘What is it, Mummy? Is someone in the water?’

‘Don’t touch anything,’ the mother said firmly.

The woman picked up a thick branch that had turned to driftwood, crouching closer to the clothes, her wide eyes darting from the wallet to the discarded jeans as she prodded them. The corner of a piece of paper peeped precariously out of one of the front pockets. She carefully slid it out and read it.

With a shaky hand, she fished her phone from her pocket and began to dial. ‘I’m calling the police.’

Half an hour later, the faint wail of sirens carried on the wind. The waves lapped rhythmically against the shore, oblivious to the unfolding drama.