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end.
    Mike Bolt. A man she’d shared far too much history with, but whom she hadn’t seen or heard from in well over a year.
    ‘I hear from your boss that you’ve been involved with the suspect from the coffee shop bomb,’ said Bolt, with none of the usual preliminaries as to how she was.
    ‘That’s right. Is that what you’re dealing with too?’
    ‘Indirectly,’ he said cryptically. ‘I need you for something.’
    Tina took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it underfoot. ‘What?’
    ‘You remember Fox, the captured terrorist from the Stanhope siege? Well, he wants to cooperate, and for whatever reason – and I cannot think for the life of me what it could be – he wants to talk to you. I need you over here right away.’
    ‘But I haven’t got transport, and the roads around Victoria Station are gridlocked. I also haven’t got a clue where you are, or even who you work for these days. It’s been a long time, remember?’ She resisted asking why he hadn’t bothered to call before now. She already knew the answer to that one.
    ‘We’re a ten-minute walk from where you are now. I’ll text you the address.’
    He ended the call, and Tina took a deep breath. It was barely nine a.m. and already this was turning into one of the most dramatic days of her career.

Eight
    09.12
    CRACK COCAINE CAN be an excellent moneymaker. It’s one of the most addictive substances known to man. That first hit on the pipe is meant to be like having a five-minute orgasm multiplied by a hundred while simultaneously finding out you’ve won ten million on the lottery. Addicts will do near enough anything for their fix – forever chasing, but never quite managing to replicate, that very first high – and there are plenty of them out there living on the periphery of everyone else’s world, unseen and unloved.
    So if you’re running a crackhouse selling rocks at ten pounds a hit, you can easily end up taking two, three grand a day. Of course you’ve got overheads. You’ve got to buy the coke to make the end product, and you’ve got to hire security, because there are plenty of people out there who’d rob you blind if they could, but even so, you’re still left with the kind of profit margins most legitimate businesses struggling in the recession would kill for. And you don’t even have to pay tax on them.
    Most crackhouses are run by individual dealers who let their places go to shit, attract the attention of the local housing authority and even, God forbid, the cops, and end up getting shut down. But if you’re an entrepreneur with a bit of intelligence, and you keep your dealing discreet, then you can operate under the radar for months, years even, building up a network of establishments. And if you actually import the coke you use to make the crack yourself, then you can end up a very rich man.
    Nicholas Tyndall was one such entrepreneur. A well-established gangster with good contacts among his fellow criminals, and even within the police service itself, he ran eleven crackhouses across north-east London that were reputed to net him more than two hundred grand a week. And they were never shut down because one of Tyndall’s front companies bought the properties being used to sell the dope as well as the properties next door (usually at knockdown prices) so that complaints from neighbours were kept to a minimum, which meant the cops weren’t too interested either. If no one reports a crime, there’s an argument that a lot of target-obsessed senior coppers subscribe to that says it’s not actually being committed. Ergo, everyone – dealers, addicts, civilians, the law – stays happy.
    One of the headaches you’ve got as a crack entrepreneur, though, is getting the cash out of your establishments and into your own grubby mitts. You need men you can trust for this. Men who are reliable, and who the scare the shit out of people. One such individual was LeShawn Lambden. Now this guy was a man mountain. Six feet