Chapter 1

 

Max Blake - The Wrong Guy

 

The Borough Market, London

November 2019

 

  MAX BLAKE’S WALK-UP bedsit was in a red brick warehouse once used to store chests of China tea that had been barged up the river from the Greenwich docks. He rated it for the light that flooded in through its steel-framed windows, reminiscent of something from The Dark Knight, that towered over the shoppers in the arcade three stories below. It was a good place to live when his head was right, and when the Black Dog came knocking, it had served as his sanctuary.

 

   The day had been hard on Blake, and as he trudged up the stairs in his sodden leathers, his mind was heavy from the funeral. His plan had been simple: demolish the pizza, crash, go to the bank tomorrow. But as he approached his door, he noticed something odd - a pair of cable ties, looped in a figure-eight, was wedged in the jamb. He reached out to turn on the hall light, but before his hand touched the switch, a voice spoke, so unnervingly close it made him jump.

   ‘Don’t do that!’ Behind him, a man stood motionless in deep shadow, one arm outstretched, holding a pistol in a gloved hand. ‘Don’t turn around ... I have a gun aimed at the back of your head!’

  For the first time in his life, Blake felt a shiver crawl down his spine. Until that moment, he thought it was bullshit.

 ‘Put them on,’ said the voice, cold and unforgiving. ‘Follow my instructions, or I will blow your brains against your grubby door.

  This must be a joke! thought Blake. He had no idea that the man would be waiting for him. ‘I got takeaway ...’

   ‘Stop!’

  Shit! Blake’s mind raced as he inserted his wrists through the hard plastic and pulled the cables tight with his teeth. What does he want?

   ‘Kneel down.’

Blake held his breath and when he heard the safety click he thought he was about to die. Shit! He’s going to kill me – I was going so good – this is not my fate! ‘Mate,’ he pleaded, ‘my wallet’s in the bag. Take what you want, take it all ... you have the wrong guy, I don’t have any drugs, I don’t deal drugs!’

  There was no response, just shallow, laboured breathing. Without warning the man hit Blake on the temple with the butt of the gun, buckling his torso and spinning his vision. As he went down, his head fell back, and for a brief moment he looked up at his attacker before everything went black.

 

   He was groggy and disoriented when he came to. A fleeting memory of the man’s bulk and fetid breath came and went as he stumbled through his door, still bound by the wrists. Rain was beating hard against the windows, and in the half-light of the early-winter evening, people were scurrying home. Blake looked down over the sea of umbrellas bobbing up and down like a smack of black jellyfish being swept along by the current. He had no idea who the mugger was, or where he had gone.

 

  In the crowd, Benito Pozzi was bludgeoning his way through the market, fast for a very fat man, seething with rage that he had not found what he was seeking in Blake’s bag. Next time I will kill him, he promised to himself.

 

   By the time he reached his car, his anger had morphed into loathing and fear of the bully who controlled his life, the psychopath who had infected his soul.

 

   He would have to kowtow to him again ...

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