Tears of Fire: A Lambeth Group Thriller

By Gordon Bickerstaff

Two serial killers have been getting away with murder for years. For them, it's a well-paid hobby while they bide their time. It's about to stop when everything slots into place for them to leap to the next level. Payback for the people who made them orphans.

Lambeth Group investigator, Gavin Shawlens, has started on their trail. But all is not as it seems, and he is pushed way out of his depth when the killers turn on his family. Gavin's Lambeth Group partner, Zoe Tampsin, is cut off from him, and fighting her own battle to stay alive.

They need to connect, but Zoe will face an impossible choice. Stop the killers before they pull off the most audacious murder that will shock the world, and change it forever. Or, rescue Gavin's family from the jaws of evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Bickerstaff
• Release date: Jun 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386366980

Gordon Bickerstaff

Gordon Bickerstaff was born and raised in Glasgow but spent his student years in Edinburgh. On summer vacations, he learned plumbing, garden maintenance, and he cut the grass in the Meadows. He learned some biochemistry and taught it for a while before he retired to write fiction. He does some aspects of DIY moderately well and other aspects not so well. He gets very tired when it's time to clean up the mess. He lives with his wife in the west of Scotland where corrupt academics, mystery, murder and intrigue exists mostly in his mind. He is the author of the Gavin Shawlens series of thrillers: Deadly Secrets, Everything To Lose, and The Black Fox. He enjoys walking, 60s & 70s music, reading and travel.

Book preview

Tears

of

Fire

––––––––

The clock is ticking...

Gordon Bickerstaff

Lambeth Group Thriller

Tears of Fire the clock is ticking...

Two serial killers have been getting away with murder for years. For them, it’s a well-paid hobby while they bide their time. It’s about to stop when everything slots into place for them to leap to the next level. Payback for the people who made them orphans.

Lambeth Group investigator, Gavin Shawlens, has started on their trail. But all is not as it seems, and he is pushed way out of his depth when the killers turn on his family. Gavin’s Lambeth Group partner, Zoe Tampsin, is cut off from him, and fighting her own battle to stay alive.

They need to connect, but Zoe will face an impossible choice. Stop the killers before they pull off the most audacious murder that will shock the world, and change it forever. Or, rescue Gavin’s family from the jaws of evil.

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Other books in the series

(in order of publication)

Deadly Secrets

Everything to Lose

The Black Fox

Toxic Minds

Tabula Rasa

Tears of Fire

Die Every Day

The Belgravia Sanction

Extreme Prejudice

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, and events are used fictitiously or are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is not intended and is entirely coincidental.

The moral right of Gordon Bickerstaff to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published in June 2018 by Gordon Bickerstaff. This edition published April 2022. Tears of Fire © Gordon Bickerstaff 2018.

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Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Emily, Pamela, and Natalie for all their inspiration, support, chocolate, and coffee. Thanks also to the readers who have given me feedback on the first five books. I am humbled by the readers who took time to write reviews, and help me to improve my stories.

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‘Neither life not nature cares if justice is ever done or not’

Patricia Highsmith

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Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

END

Author

The Lambeth Group

Story Notes

Lambeth Group Thrillers

One

Islington, Liverpool

Tuesday, 1st August

They drove a large Mercedes, and going by the smell in the boot, it wasn’t long out of the showroom. New cars are rarely pulled over by police checking for insurance and car tax avoidance hits on their PNC cameras. Archie Hardcastle spent ten years working in the car insurance fraud unit, and he knew his cars.

Archie considered the black hood they jerked over his head as a positive gesture. No faces, and no identification, so he expected to be released after they questioned him. There were three of them; two men and a woman. He noticed before the hood covered his eyes.

He suffered many rough experiences and hard knocks over the past twenty-four years as an insurance fraud investigator. Though, this was the first time someone kidnapped him from his underground car park, hooded, and bundled into a Mercedes. He knew what they were after. They’re wasting their time, he thought.

They took his phone and office keys and made him climb into the boot of their car. He lay there for ten minutes before the driver’s door opened and closed, then the car drove off. He expected they ransacked his office. What they want doesn’t exist, but, he thought, it’s time I bought new office furniture.

On the road, the journey took four or five hours on fast motorway. He figured they took the M6, then the M1. He presumed they were taking him to London for a scary meeting with Mr Big. Always a good sign when the enemy needs to warn you off.

They gave him an empty plastic bottle, and warned him not to piss in the car. A comfort gesture he believed meant he wasn’t in serious trouble. After all, they had nothing to fear from him. His fraud investigation collapsed, and there would be no charges and no arrests. They won.

Last week, frustration motivated him to ruffle serious feathers, and provoke a retaliation in a desperate hope something would slip. He confronted three of the suspects who defeated the system and received substantial insurance payments for what Archie believed were cold-blooded murders.

He expected a posse of intimidating lawyers would arrive at the office to scare him off, so an abduction signalled a more personal warning. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Archie could have avoided unpleasantness if he trusted his instincts, and walked away. He spotted a woman loitering around his home, and he spied the same woman wearing a different wig near his office. An amateur attempting to monitor his movements, he thought. Another sure sign of an impending skirmish with the opposition.

A signal he should have heeded because the murder suspects won, and he couldn’t do anything to change the outcome. He worked compulsively on these cases, and failure served him a bitter glass of sulphuric acid he refused to swallow.

He carried pictures of the nine victims to remind him who he really represented. In a small way, aggravating three of the murder suspects allowed the victims to hit back. Even if it meant he had to go before Mr Big and take a few punches in the gut.

His senses told him the abductors brought him to a disused factory. Somewhere underground because they travelled down one level in a rickety lift, and he heard them drag a scissor gate door open.

From there, they dragged him along a corridor where water dripped onto his hood, and he trampled through puddles. Damp air carried a smell of rusting iron, which confirmed his guess; a derelict building.

A door creaked open. They cut his binds, then pushed him into a room. A storage room, he discovered when he removed the hood. A dark room except for dim light shining through a grubby glass panel above the door.

He checked his watch, 01:37hrs, and confirmed what he thought; five hours car travel. He yawned as he stretched his legs. He expected questions and aggressive warnings would start in the morning, so he searched the room for something comfortable to bed down on.

Archie was a solid man, ex-military, three stones overweight with a grey beard and a mop of unkempt grey hair that appeared uneven, as if he cut it himself. He wore mismatched corduroy jacket and trousers, Army Surplus boots, a checked shirt, and a knitted tie.

His ten-year-old Toyota resembled a wreck, but it ran well, and if it ever dared break down, he would have it running again in no time. He didn’t have a family or a partner as befitting an obsessive investigator who lived for his work.

*

Archie checked his watch when footsteps arrived outside the door. 07:46hrs. He sat upright as the door lock clicked to unlock. At last, he thought, let’s get this over and done. I don’t suppose they’ll drive me back to Liverpool.

The door opened, and a woman entered, followed by a man who flicked a light switch. Archie glared at them, and his heart raced. Neither of them wore masks or anything to hide their identity. He reached for his hood, then dropped it at his feet. Too late for that now. The woman held a brown envelope in her hand.

She stepped aside and commanded, ‘Jae, fetch him a chair.’

Archie eyed the woman. Seen you before; sweet face, he thought, fancy wigs didn’t fool me then, or now.

Jae returned with a wooden chair. He dragged it into the centre, and said to Archie, ‘Sit.’

Archie eased into the chair.

Jae stood behind him, and the woman stepped closer.

Archie scratched at his beard. ‘What’s this all about?’

The woman ignored his pretend confusion. ‘Questions,’ she replied.

He shrugged and held a confused expression. ‘I don’t understand.’

The woman opened the envelope. ‘Why do you question them?’ She held three photos. Three of her clients. ‘These people face no charges. Yet you continue to harass them. Why?’

Archie smirked as he recognised the faces. He did question them aggressively and tried to intimidate them. Three of nine multi-millionaires suspected of murder and fraudulent insurance claims. The sight of their smug faces twisted knots in his stomach.

The suspects were investigated by a joint task force of Police, Forensic Service, National Crime Agency, and Insurance Industry Fraud Bureau. All to no avail, because it proved impossible to show the deaths were murder. His boss conceded defeat in the face of high-profile claims for harassment, but Archie wanted to shake them until one of them made a mistake.

The victims died unexpectedly, and despite extensive analysis, no suspicious cause of death was found in any of them. Archie’s gut reminded him the suspects committed murder, but gut feelings didn’t provide hard evidence to secure a conviction.

With no new leads, and no prospect of a prosecution, the task force archived the case. But cantankerous Archie wanted one last stab at the multi-faced monster, or at least three of them.

Archie signalled he understood. ‘Ah, yes. I’m following up on minor details before the insurance companies close their files. Nothing for your clients to worry about.’

The woman raised her voice. ‘Accusations cause deep upset.’

Archie frowned and opened his unapologetic hands. ‘Glad to hear I did something.’

She pulled a paper from the envelope and read it. ‘What recent evidence do you have?’

Archie folded his arms across his chest. ‘Ah... yes... I may have said something along those lines to your clients, but really; I have nothing. All the cases are closed. No further action. Your clients won. I lost. Not a fair outcome, I know, but what can I do?’

She read more of the paper. ‘A scientist found chemical residues to explain how the suspects murdered their loved ones.’

Archie shifted his gaze to the side and shrugged. ‘Did I say that?’ He smiled and rubbed the back of his ear before he faced her. ‘There is no scientist. The forensic people found nothing suspicious. If I gave your clients the impression a scientist found something, I apologise for misleading them.’

His expression and hand gestures were simple enough to tell her he set out to upset her clients.

She pointed an aggressive finger. ‘I will not tolerate further harassment.’

He groaned theatrically. ‘You may inform all of your clients; there will be no more hassle. Unless, something new comes to light.’

She returned the sheets and photos to the envelope, and her expression suggested his reply satisfied her. ‘Harassment ends today.’

Archie splayed his hands out in a wide stretch, then folded his arms. ‘What more do you want? You won the battle hands down. Your clients got away with murder; allegedly. Nothing I can do to change the fact.’ His voice reflected anger and frustration.

He reached for the black hood and opened it, ready to pull over his head. ‘I’ve said all I’m willing to say. So, if you don’t mind, please drop me off at the nearest tube station. I have other work to be getting on with.’ Archie jerked the hood over his head.

The woman signalled. Jae whipped a plastic bag over Archie’s head and pulled it tight around his neck. He had laced the inside of the bag with chloroform.

Archie struggled in the chair. His hands strained to prise Jae’s hands apart. But they were too strong. Gasping for air, Archie sucked chloroform into his body. In less than a minute, Archie’s body relaxed as the pungent anaesthetic arrested his consciousness.

Jae removed the bag and hood, then felt Archie’s neck for a pulse. ‘Finish him?’

She shook her head. ‘No. The stupid schedule they have in this absurd place means he must wait until there is space in the queue. Keep him here. I may question him again to be certain.’

Two

Coddington Castle, Cumbria

Thursday, 3rd August.

In the north wing of the castle, in a candle-lit private chamber, logs of ash and birch crackled and roared in an open fire under an imposing marble mantelpiece. The ash logs warmed the room, and the birch logs filled the air with a pleasant fragrance.

In the centre of the room, seven chairs surrounded a 300-year-old mahogany table. Standing behind the chairs, six Cabinet members of an ancient order, the King’s High Council, waited to take their seats.

Emblazoned on the backrests of respective chairs were the distinctive coats of armour of some of the oldest aristocratic families in the country.

Tobias Silsden stood behind his family chair while a whirlwind of emotions ravaged his mind. His hands gripped the hand-carved oak chair so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

Two weeks ago, he barely knew anything about the High Council. Then, his uncle and two of his cousins were murdered, and as next in line, he accepted his uncle’s chair to maintain the family position on the Council.

His heart still raw from the high-profile funerals, and the outpouring of sympathy he received from all over the world. Events turned his life upside down, and he battled every waking minute to pull himself together.

Today would be especially gruelling. Not only did he have to speed-learn the centuries-old traditions and responsibilities of the High Council and its Cabinet; he caught the killer and brought her before the High Council for traditional justice.

Just before noon, he captured Zoe Tampsin. A woman he respected, and would have trusted with his own life. He interrogated her for six hours, and learned she didn’t kill them for money, power, revenge, or hatred. But she refused to explain why she killed them. Her silence made no sense and fuelled his torment as painfully as a white-hot poker passing through his head.

A narrow panel door opened into the chamber. Master of the Cabinet, Charles Sparling, entered the room. A man in his sixties with white hair, he removed his olive-green cloak and placed it on a peg beside six similar cloaks.

Sparling eased into his family chair, then banged a wooden gavel for the others to take their seats. Around the table were four hereditary Lords, one Duke and the newest and youngest addition to the Cabinet, the Earl of Newstead, Tobias Silsden.

With a sympathetic nod, Sparling addressed Silsden. ‘Tobias, you have been a tower of strength today. Zacchary would be proud of you. I welcome you to your first meeting of the Cabinet. I am so sorry you join us in such harrowing circumstances. When tonight’s proceedings have ended, we will all find comfort for our loss.’

The others rapped their knuckles on the table to add their support.

Sparling brought a tray bearing seven black silk square cloths to the table. ‘Your family will have justice, and it will be served to your satisfaction.’

Sparling acknowledged each member with knowing eye contact and a smile. ‘The Jury of Peers has found both accused guilty. It now falls upon this special meeting of Cabinet to decide the manner of punishment.’

He removed one sentencing cloth and passed the tray to the man sitting on his left. Each person positioned his cloth on his head with one corner of the square pointing over his hair line. ‘Who will propose punishment for Tulley?’

Lord Godfrey Gotland raised an index finger. Sparling banged his gavel for silence while Gotland spoke. ‘I have consulted within the wider membership of High Council. The majority recommend death by rapier for his crimes. I reported this recommendation to the head of the Tulley family, and he is minded to accept said punishment.’

Sparling opened the twenty-eighth Register of Justice, and entered the proposal. ‘How say you all?’

Without hesitation, each member announced his decision.

‘Death by rapier.’ Rang out six times.

Sparling recorded the decisions in the Register. ‘Who will propose punishment for Tampsin?’

All eyes shifted to Tobias. He raised his hand. Sparling banged the gavel for silence while Silsden spoke.

‘Zoe Tampsin murdered my uncle and my cousins. Brought devastation to my family in a single night of madness. To blacken her hand, she will not tell me why. There is no case for clemency. I propose death by hanging.’

Again, without hesitation, each member announced his decision.

‘Death by hanging.’ Rang out six times.

When all had spoken, Sparling removed his black cloth, returned it to the tray and passed it to the man on his left. ‘These decisions are unanimous. The sentences will be carried out in the Great Hall within the hour. I declare this special meeting of Cabinet closed.’

Sparling banged his gavel.

Tobias remained seated. Expressionless, he stared at the burning logs. The other members rose from their seats, and as they filed past Tobias, each one offered a few words of condolence then patted Tobias on the arm or the shoulder.

At the row of cloak hooks, Sparling thanked each of the others with a nod and a firm handshake. Each one donned an olive-green cloak before entering a narrow passageway leading from a secret panel door to the Great Hall.

Sparling stood beside Tobias. ‘I can have someone else bring Tampsin to the Hall.’

Tobias snapped out of his fixation with the fire. ‘No. I’ll do it,’ he said, and rose from his chair to face Sparling. ‘I’ll give her one last chance to tell me why.’

Tobias donned his cloak and closed the panel door behind him when he left.

Sparling completed the entries in the Register of Justice and returned it to an oak bookcase holding twenty-seven previous Registers. He donned his cloak, and strode across the room to an arched double door that opened inwards to reveal the chamber lay at the end of a long corridor.

A wide corridor with impressive suits of armour bearing swords and shields standing guard on either side.

Half-way along the passageway, a man waited in a shadow cast by one suit. He wore a flat cap, three-quarter length dark-blue cashmere coat, dark-blue silk scarf, and black leather gloves. To maintain his circulation, he stepped on the spot without moving his arms.

Forty minutes he waited in the damp, dusty space. Any longer, and he would have descended into an uncontrollable fit of coughing. When the double doors opened, he stood still and sighed with relief.

Sparling approached him and offered his hand. The man pulled off a glove and returned the gesture.

During the hand-shake, Sparling dipped his head. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

Alan Cairn coughed to clear his throat. ‘What have you decided?’

Sparling lowered his voice to a whisper that wouldn’t echo. ‘Unanimous. Within the hour in the Great Hall, she’ll be hanged until certified dead.’

Cairn grinned his approval. ‘Thank you for bringing me the news. Hanging is no less than she deserves for the cold-blooded execution of Lord Silsden and his family. Did she offer anything in her defence?’

Sparling shook his head. ‘Nothing. As you expected, like a soldier caught behind enemy lines, she refused to speak. Did you find out how she discovered Zacchary’s plan?’

Cairn shrugged as he pulled his glove back on. ‘If I’d found out, I would have killed her, and Zacchary’s plan would have succeeded. The world would now be a very different place.’

‘It’s unfortunate the plan didn’t run to completion. So many decades of intensive planning, wasted. Council members were dismayed to find out she killed Zacchary while under your command,’ Sparling said, then squinted back along the corridor to the chamber. ‘Questions were asked.’

Cairn tinged his voice with resentment. ‘She disobeyed my direct orders. She sided with the CIA and others who twisted her mind. I only discovered her intentions when she turned up at Silsden Hall. By then it was too late to stop her.’

Sparling gave Cairn a curious look. ‘Are you certain the buck has stopped?’

Cairn cocked his head to the side. ‘I’ve submitted my final report to the PM. The matter is officially closed. I’m tidying a few loose ends.’

‘Good.’

‘How is Toby holding up?’

A light frown creased Sparling’s forehead. ‘Tampsin’s refusal to explain her motive is eating him up. Maybe I should tell him—’

‘No!’ Cairn raised his voice, then lowered it to a whisper. ‘We cannot tell him anything. He is unprepared for the truth. Give him time to settle and adjust.’ Cairn stepped out of the shadow and onto the carpet runner. ‘He has much to learn as head of the Silsden family.’

‘Quite so,’ Sparling said. ‘I must thank you for assisting her capture. Your indefatigable support in this unfortunate business will not be forgotten.’

Sparling shifted his gaze to the double doors as if he wanted to leave.

Cairn clapped his gloved hands together. ‘My service is my reward. I do my duty to the utmost of my ability.’

Sparling shifted his eyes to the suit of armour standing beside them. ‘By dispensing justice according to our tradition, we will find peace much sooner than otherwise would have been the case.’

Cairn adjusted his cap. ‘A military court would have given her a platform to defame the Silsden family. I could not allow that to happen.’

Sparling pointed a finger to the Great Hall. ‘The High Council has dispensed justice for crimes against the aristocracy since the time of King Edward III. Her deviance will end tonight. You are welcome to attend. I can fetch your cloak for you.’

‘Not this time,’ Cairn said, sounding disappointed. ‘Much as I’d like. I have pressing matters needing my attention.’

‘As you wish.’ Sparling turned, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode back to the chamber. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.

Cairn smiled and marched in the opposite direction, then turned into another corridor leading to a side exit. Outside the building, he glanced at the sky. Rain clouds gathered, but no precipitation yet.

He sucked in two deep breaths to fill his lungs with fresh moist air, then strode to his car. He clapped his gloves, pleased with the outcome.

His bodyguard and driver, Steve, opened the back door of his official vehicle, a black Jaguar XF saloon. Cairn slid into the back seat, pulled off his gloves, opened his briefcase, and fetched his tablet computer.

In quick order, Steve swept the car out of the car park.

Somehow, you always expect a bodyguard to be the same height or taller than the subject. Steve stood two inches shorter than Cairn. Still, he appeared tough and capable with snake eyes, a two-inch scar on his cheek, and a shaven head.

Steve piped up. ‘Did she keep her trap shut?’

Cairn smiled. ‘Of course, she did. She knows what I’ll do if she reneges on the deal.’

Steve pounded his hand on the steering wheel. ‘One down, two to go. Where to now?’

Cairn accessed messages on his tablet. ‘Take me back to the Home Office.’

Steve tsked and tutted. ‘A pity the High Council couldn’t deal with both of the Tampsins tonight.’

Cairn didn’t look away from his tablet. ‘Given Michael Tampsin’s exemplary service record, the military would be compelled to mount an investigation. I need a more subtle end for him.’

Two minutes of silence followed while Steve waited for a gap in traffic to allow him to exit a T-junction. ‘Why not use Doctor Death for this one?’

This time, Cairn glanced up to catch Steve’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He set his tablet on the seat beside him and ran his fingers through his beard while he contemplated. ‘Precisely what I’m thinking. Arrange a meeting with the good doctor.’

‘London or Gourock?’

Another stroke of his beard. ‘Let’s go to Scotland. I could use the fresh air.’

Three

In a dank dungeon, two levels underneath the west wing, Zoe Tampsin paced around a sturdy milking stool placed in the middle of the room. With a single light bulb hanging above the door rather than in the centre of the room, the corners were dark.

With walls of old rotting wood and no ventilation, harsh smells hung around, and she imagined what it was like in the dark intestines of an ancient galleon.

Uneven flagstones over compacted soil produced a dampness thick enough to cut with a knife. It sparred with a stench of urine from her toilet bucket.

With time ebbing away, she reflected on her choices. Silsden’s people caught her a few hours before noon, brought her to the Castle, and kept her in the dungeon while Silsden interrogated her. Then an hour ago, they brought her before the Peers for summary trial, but she refused to answer questions. Unsurprisingly, they found her guilty.

From the moment they captured her, she understood how the evening would end. A battle-hardened soldier. She didn’t fear death, but she did hate waiting for it to arrive.

A soldier goes into battle knowing death is a possibility, but not a certainty. When death is certain, there is no point waiting. She wanted them to do what they had to do without further prevarication.

The door opened and groaned as Scots Guards officer, Tobias Silsden, entered the room followed by two armed women. Caz (Caroline), a short-haired red-head and Bree (Brianna) a brunette with her hair fixed in a tight bun.

Both were dressed in army khaki fatigues. They fanned out on either side of Silsden and drew their Browning HP 9mm pistols on Zoe.

Silsden stood in front of the open door. Tucked under his left arm, his swagger stick bearing his regimental insignia on a silver cap.

Caz edged forward and extended her hand to Zoe. ‘I’ll take your stuff.’

Zoe reached behind the stool for a daysack and handed it over. ‘Non-bio and just a drop of softener in the wash. Pressed rather than ironed, thank you.’

Caz frowned. You are one stupid woman, she thought as she accepted the daysack.

Before they brought Zoe to face the Peers, Caz gave Zoe the daysack, and ordered her to change into the clothes she now wore.

Caz took the daysack outside and hung it on a peg.

Bree faced Zoe with a pair of ancient iron handcuffs.

Zoe stretched out her hands, and Bree fitted them to her wrists.

Toby watched and thought about how he might make Tampsin explain her actions. He questioned her for six hours, to no avail. He tried harsh, and he tried gentle, but she refused to talk about the deaths. This would be the last opportunity to lance the festering torment, which kept him awake at night.

Her actions made little sense. Her silence didn’t make sense. Before him stood a heroine of the modern army. A five-eight, slender, athletic-looking, mid-forties, intelligent and ambitious woman with disarming dark looks and short black hair. With twenty-seven-year exemplary service, he respected her without question.

He remembered the Sovereign’s Parade at Sandhurst when she received the Sword of Honour as the best officer cadet. Her military record in Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan were second to none, and he pegged her for promotion to colonel.

Captain Tampsin served with special forces, and her CO wrote into her record, Zoe Tampsin protects her troop like a lioness protecting her cubs, powerful, determined, and completely ruthless.

Many times, she proved herself combat hardened. With powerful determination, she managed the hard stress of imminent danger. Her concentration over long periods had saved many soldiers under her command.

What she did two weeks ago made little sense to anyone who knew her. She was on secondment to a secret Home Office department known as the Lambeth Group when the deaths of Lord Zacchary Silsden and two of his family were attributed to her hands.

With his chin held high, his lips flattened, and his eyebrows furrowed, Toby dropped a large brown bag on the floor. ‘Her cloak.’

Zoe rattled the handcuffs at Bree. ‘These should be in a museum. I can get out of them in less than a minute. Care to time me?’

Bree holstered her pistol, unzipped the brown bag, and pulled out a scarlet cloak. She admired Zoe and aspired to be a leader like her. Now, she wondered if Zoe’s treason would undermine the sisterhood of women commanders. Bree folded the red cloak over her arm.

Over his service parade uniform, Toby Silsden wore an olive-coloured cloak and hood with the crest of the High Council on his left breast. On his right breast, the Silsden crest formed from fine gold, blue, yellow, and scarlet threads.

Zoe noticed the crest. ‘Congratulations. I see they invested you into the High Council.’

Through gritted teeth, he sneered. ‘You removed my uncle from the Council. As next in line, I take his seat. You will be my first blood; I will avenge the murder of my uncle and my cousins.’

‘I killed them, Toby.’ Zoe sighed. ‘I didn’t murder them; get the facts straight.’

Silsden raised his voice and pointed an accusing finger. ‘Why my family?’

Despondently, she shook her head. ‘Trust me, you don’t want the truth.’

‘Damn you!’ he screeched, and turned his back on her.

He met Zoe several times at HQ regimental dinners, and although he didn’t serve with her, he appreciated her achievements, her bravery, and the loyalty she drew from soldiers who served under her command.

Toby leaned one hand against the door-frame and calmed his mind. Nothing would be gained by ranting like an animal. He turned to face her. ‘You swore a solemn oath to protect Queen and Country. You betrayed every precious thing you once held dear. Destroyed a long and distinguished military record held by your family.’

Zoe shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. Her proud heart was already shattered into pieces. She wouldn’t show him evidence of her inner turmoil. She couldn’t turn back the clock, nor could she unmake the choices she made.

Once more, Toby tried to break through. ‘I feel for your daughter, Amy. What will she think in ten years when she looks back, and they tell her you were a monster? Your family name will be forever associated with treason. Any hope Michael had of re-starting his military career is now crushed. Why?’

Her face lit up. ‘My brother had nothing to do with what I