Cecile Metcalf had been finding people for a long time, and it wasn’t unusual for them to turn up in the most unexpected of situations.
But finding a detective inspector dealing drugs from a squat had to be her most unusual yet.
And yet maybe she should have seen something like this coming?
Gardner had warned her that Riddick was an alcoholic who’d lost his wife and two children in horrendous circumstances.
It was hardly a surprise that he was this broken.
Still, Gardner had remained adamant that his heart was a good one – so the fact that he was now dealing drugs, and destroying lives, was rather out of the blue.
Finding Riddick propping up a bar in the middle of nowhere, or beneath a bridge by a burning drum, or in a sleeping bag in a shop doorway would’ve felt more fitting to Cecile.
What worried her most was that Gardner had Riddick all wrong.
A passionate man driven for justice regardless of risks? Really? A sympathetic individual who’d support the vulnerable no matter the costs? Are you sure?
There was no justice, or support for the vulnerable, in the selling of drugs.
No, drug dealing was as far from, ‘he holds himself to high standards, Cecile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a moral compass like it,’ as it came.
Cecile, having decided that Gardner’s judgement must have been clouded over Riddick, had already made the decision to see this one through on her own.
She’d take all emotion out of the equation.
And if there was one thing that could escalate this whole situation into something dangerous, it was emotion. So, having left her car far down the street, Cecile approached the crumbling terrace on foot.
She felt bad shutting her close friend out and ignoring her calls, but there were conclusions to make. Cleanly, objectively and swiftly. Gardner would bound into that house like a bull in a china shop!
As she passed an old Toyota with flat tyres, she caught her reflection in the glass.
Even though she’d spent the morning prepping herself, seeing the stained and tattered clothes still stunned her. As did her unkempt hair, which she’d deliberately worked into tangles. She’d considered smudges of dirt on her face and hands to really mimic the harshness of street life, but was concerned about hamming it up too much. She had, however, used make-up to paint dark circles beneath her eyes. This hadn’t been the first time she’d donned such a disguise, but it’d been a fair number of years since last time, so she believed her age had helped her pull it off more successfully. It’d added to the weary and worn-out look of someone battling addiction.
Although her heart was thrashing in her chest, and the danger before her had her mind playing with serious consequences, she had to admit to thriving off the task.
She glanced right at the crumbling garden wall on which she’d snapped Riddick the previous day and approached the blistered front door.
She lived for moments like this.
Moments of truth and discovery.
Time to find out what you’re really up to, Paul.
The downstairs windows were boarded over, so she could hear muffled music creeping free of the property. After knocking on the front door, she took a step back and hopped from foot to foot, desperate to look agitated, and in need of a fix.
For most of the night, she’d considered the scenario in her head. Riddick, or the other bloke he was working with, would answer the door. Cecile would apologise for not phoning ahead, but she’d show that she had good money for a score.
She was confident.
But then, Cecile always felt confident.
Over the years, she’d known a lot of success.
She’d been a bloody good DI, and an even better private investigator—
The door opened.
Still hopping from foot to foot, rubbing her hands together and blowing plumes of white into the chilly morning air, she readied herself.
Unfortunately, neither Riddick nor his companion had opened the door.
Instead, she came face to face with someone she’d not expected to see. Tommy Rose.
And the big, evil bastard looked pissed off.