The Rebel: The new crime thriller that will have you gripped in 2018. Jaime Raven

about?’

      ‘Oh, just business stuff. But he got me drinking champagne and it’s gone straight to my head.’

      She laughed. ‘I have no sympathy. You know that bubbly doesn’t agree with you.’

      ‘Yeah, well, best to keep the boss sweet.’

      He went into the en suite, cleaned his teeth and emptied his bladder. He was anxious not to get drawn into a conversation because he might just blurt out something he’d regret.

      ‘I need to get some shut eye,’ he said as he climbed into bed. ‘I’ve got another early start in the morning.’

      He gave her a cuddle and at the same time reached over to switch off the lamp.

      ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Amy asked him. ‘You don’t seem your usual self.’

      ‘I’m fine. Honest. Just dead tired.’

      ‘Only I was hoping that maybe we could get it on. I’ve been so bloody horny all evening.’

      Pregnancy had boosted Amy’s libido to the point where it seemed she couldn’t get enough of it, and normally he was only too eager to satisfy her craving. But right now a shag was out of the question. With what was going on inside his head he was sure he wouldn’t even be able to get it up.

      ‘It’ll have to wait until morning, babe,’ he said. ‘I’m so knackered I know I’ll disappoint you.’

      ‘Why don’t you let me work my magic then,’ she said as she reached under the duvet.

      But she failed to get a rise out of him and he was relieved when she gave up after thirty seconds and rolled over.

      It wasn’t long before she started snoring so he didn’t have to pretend to be asleep. He was able to lie there on his back with his eyes wide open, his mind wrestling with a growing anxiety.

      He was still awake an hour later when a chilling sound reached him from downstairs – the sound of the front door being smashed in.

      He knew instinctively what was happening before the shouting started. It was a police raid and they were sure to be mob-handed.

      He heard their boots pounding up the stairs and he felt the floor shudder.

      Then the landing light went on and there was another crash as the door to one of the other rooms was rammed open.

      ‘Armed police,’ a voice called out. ‘Stay where you are.’

      But Terry was already on the move, throwing off the duvet and leaping off the bed.

      As he fumbled for the lamp switch the bedroom door was flung open and Amy screamed.

      Terry, naked and disoriented, spun round so fast that he lost his balance and lurched towards a police officer in full body armour who was standing in the doorway. The officer reacted by discharging two bullets in quick succession from his Glock 17 pistol.

      Both shells slammed into Terry’s chest and he was thrown onto the floor.

      The last thing he heard was Amy screaming, but he died not knowing that she was in the throes of a painful miscarriage induced by shock.

      The police officer, a man with three years’ experience in the firearms unit, would later tell an investigation that he thought the suspect was attacking him.

      The inquiry would also hear that the raid was one of a number that took place that night on the homes of individuals known to be involved in organised crime.

      In Terry’s house the team found a quantity of Class A drugs, a sawn-off shotgun and a total of ten thousand pounds in cash.

      They also found a collection of documents and magazines pertaining to a wedding that would now never take place.

PART ONE

       1

      Laura

       Two months later

      The man in the dock had already been convicted and this afternoon he was going to be sentenced.

      That was why I’d come along on what was supposed to be a rare day off. I wanted to see the bastard’s face when the judge told him how many years he’d have to spend behind bars.

      My colleagues and I were hoping for a long, long stretch. If he got less than twenty we’d be disappointed. With any luck he’d die in prison, and since he was in his mid-fifties there was every chance he would.

      The man’s name was Harry Fuller, and at his trial, which had ended a month ago, he’d been found guilty of a range of offences from extortion and money laundering to drug trafficking and people smuggling. These were committed during the five years he’d spent as head of one of London’s most notorious crime gangs.

      He had also been linked to at least six murders, but we hadn’t come up with the evidence to charge him with those.

      It was still a great result, though. We’d managed to succeed where others before us had failed. Harry Fuller had at last been well and truly nailed.

      I was watching the proceedings from the packed public gallery and switching my gaze between the judge and Fuller. The judge had indicated that he was going to make a statement before passing sentence, and he was now consulting his notes before getting on with it.

      As usual I was in awe of my surroundings: London’s Central Criminal Court, more commonly known as the Old Bailey. I’d been here many times and it never failed to impress me. So many lives had been changed in this place and so many wrongs had been put right. For a copper like me it was nothing less than a shrine to the law and to the legal system.

      I noticed that Fuller had spotted me and even across the courtroom I could see the devilish glint in his eyes.

      I held his gaze, forcing myself not to waver. But it was hard not to be unnerved by the expression on his face. It reminded me of the old cliché that if looks could kill I’d be dead.

      In appearance Fuller was the archetypal gangster, big and beefy with a bullet-shaped head and broken nose. But there was more to him than muscle and menace. He was also a shrewd businessman, and it was estimated that his firm had been turning over fifty million pounds a year.

      Without him at the helm, the firm was already coming apart at the seams, and that was great because it had been one of our primary objectives.

      It was DS Martin Weeks and I who had made the collar that day at Fuller’s office in Stratford. I was the one who’d done the talking, and I would never forget Fuller’s reaction when I’d showed him my warrant card and said, ‘DI Laura Jefferson. I’m with Scotland Yard’s organised crime task force and I’m here to tell you that you’re nicked.’

      He’d raised his brow at me and the hint of a smile had played at the corners of his mouth.

      ‘Well, what do you know?’ he’d said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘I wondered if and when you lot would get around to me. But it’s only fair to warn you that I won’t be so easy to take down as those others you’ve collared.’

      And he’d been right. But we’d got there in the end through an immense amount of effort and some good luck. Everyone had put in a ton of extra hours to ensure that we had a watertight case against the man.

      ‘Here comes the moment of truth.’

      The voice belonged to the woman who was sitting directly behind me and it snapped me back to the present.

      I turned my attention to the judge who had finished checking his notes and was ready to speak. The court bailiff asked everyone to be quiet, which prompted about half a dozen