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throat. Every breath was painful.
    The spot in which Carter had been standing was now empty, the cord tying Kitkat’s feet looped over the bracket on the ceiling and tied to the corner of a metal shelf. As far as he could
see, he was alone.
    He bobbed back and forth, still trying to get his breath properly as he angled himself to peer up at the rope that was holding him. As he wondered how he was going to release himself, Kitkat
realised a knife was resting next to the taps. Had it always been there, or had it been put there by whoever had cut his wrists free? Not caring either way, Kitkat stretched for the blade. It was
heavy, the type used to slice vegetables, and he wasn’t feeling particularly strong.
    It took time, but with a series of grunts and resting periods, he hoisted himself up and slowly cut through the cord.
    Eventually, the rope gave way, allowing Kitkat’s exhausted body to flop to the floor, where he landed in a puddle of water with a fleshy plop. He put his hands to his face, checking he was
all there before emitting another choke of water.
    ‘You can still use your hands, then?’
    Kitkat didn’t have the energy to turn quickly but he slumped to the side, spotting Carter standing close to a chest freezer, hands in pockets. Kitkat’s throat was on fire:
‘Huh?’
    ‘Four fingers or not, your hands still work.’
    ‘I guess.’
    Carter stepped forward as Kitkat reeled away, arm across his face, expecting a blow that never came. Instead, the suited man offered his hand and helped Kitkat to his feet.
    His features were as impassive as ever. ‘I hear you’ve been asking around for work,’ Carter said.
    ‘Er . . . yeah.’
    ‘You know who I am?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And what I do.’
    ‘Sort of, I mean—’
    Carter cut him off: ‘I need honest men who might have to handle certain types of goods or money but wouldn’t think of nicking from me.’
    ‘Oh . . .’
    ‘Loyal, too. People who don’t grass.’
    Kitkat tried to read Carter but there was nothing to see. He wondered how much of this had been planned. He
had
been asking for work and his car was distinctive enough to be spotted at
the chicken place the previous evening. Had he been given the money by accident? Was it deliberate to see if he tried to do something stupid with the cash? Who was the server? Perhaps he’d
passed the test by not being an idiot? Maybe he’d never know.
    He covered his mouth as another cough erupted. Carter stepped to the side, pointing towards the fire exit. ‘Get me back my five hundred quid and I’ll have a job for you.’
    At least that answered the question of whether Chris was in on all of this – he wasn’t
and
he’d nicked five hundred quid. The idiot. Kitkat stumbled across the kitchen,
passing the snipped remains of his rucksack.
    Carter’s voice echoed across the room. ‘I’ll get you a new bag.’
    Kitkat had one hand on the metal bar across the fire exit, freedom tantalisingly close. ‘Right.’
    ‘One more thing.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Get better mates, Kitkat – Chris Green’s a liability. I’ll be in touch, yeah?’
    Kitkat gazed up at the brute of a man, knowing he couldn’t say ‘no’. What were the career options when you were born in a place like this? Roofer? Some shit job in a call
centre?
    No way.
    He nodded, still tasting the detergent. ‘No problem.’

SCARRED FOR LIFE
    There’s no going back . . .
    DI Jessica Daniel is not having a good week. Her wallet’s been nicked, the refurbished incident room is already falling apart, and a new football-mad constable is driving
her crazy.
    But she has bigger things on her mind. A student, vaguely linked to an Olympic medallist, has been found dead; his body dumped in a wheelie bin at the back of a university building. One theory
is that it could have been an induction that went wrong.
    There’s also the tattooed shop raider who has her team stumped; someone attacking lone women; a chief inspector who seems to have a