The King’s Gold — 10:54 p.m.

The pub is packed, South London voices rising beneath battered beams, pints gleaming amber under yellow light. Roger stands behind the bar, posture loose but watchful. I’m nursing my gin, scanning the crowd with my fieldworker’s eye—noting every shift in tension, every too-loud laugh that might mean trouble.

Harry drifts past, phone pressed to his ear, muttering something about “provenance concerns” in that funeral-director voice of his. He catches my eye, gives the smallest nod. The art reporter’s taken the bait.

In the back room, Bartley’s fingers fly over his laptop, posting encrypted rumours through three burner accounts. I can hear him giggling to himself—never a good sign.

“Bartley,” Roger calls, not turning from the bar. “If you’re laughing, you’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m not laughing, Da! I’m—” A snort. “—I’m just appreciating the artistry of digital misinformation.”

Duke sidles up to two junior Extropia crew near the snug, all charm and cheekbones.

“Nah, mate, Roger won’t touch it. Too hot. Word is he’s thinking of shopping it to Interpol just to keep the heat off.”

He says it like he’s sharing the world’s juiciest secret, and I watch one of them pull out his phone immediately.

“Hook,” I murmur to Roger.

“Line,” he agrees, pouring someone a pint without looking.

My phone buzzes. Harry’s text: Art hack live. City reporter on board. She says, “I owe you one”.

I show Roger. He grins, wolfish. “Old code, new tricks.”

“Let’s hope Boris is as predictable as his nickname suggests.”

---

Peckham — Rival Territory, 11:30 p.m.

Two Postcodes Boris, paces his rented shopfront, wild grin splitting his face. He’s assembled his crew: runners on e-bikes, a courier with a duffel, enough swagger to fill the Thames.

His right-hand man, Jase, stares at his phone. “Boss. You seeing this?”

“Seeing what?”

“Twitter. Some art journalists are posting about the Dower Street job. Says Scotland Yard’s interested. Says Interpol might be—”

“Bollocks. Old Roger’s running scared, trying to spook us off.” But Boris’s phone is buzzing now, too. Then another. Then three more.

One of his muscles checks the street, sees a police car drift past—routine patrol, nothing to do with them—and shifts nervously. “Boris, mate, you sure about this?”

Boris’s mismatched eyes narrow in two different directions, trying to make sense of it. His phone lights up with a news alert: MYSTERY PAINTING—STOLEN MASTERPIECE SURFACES? INTERPOL WATCHING LONDON ART SCENE.

“That’s…” He squints. “That’s too fast. How’s that so fast?”

Jase looks up from his phone. “Boss, my cousin’s girlfriend works at an auction house. Says they got a tip-off today about dodgy provenance. Says the painting’s got more eyes on it than the bloody Crown Jewels.”

Boris stands very still. His crew watches him, waiting.

“Right.” He spits to the side. “Right. We hold off. Let the heat die down.”

The duffel stays where it is. The runners check their phones, relieved. Within ten minutes, the shopfront is empty.

A taxi driver parked across the street—one of Roger’s old mates—sends a single text: Bottled it.

The Switch — Soho, Early a.m.

Back at The King’s Gold, Elena shares a final nod with Roger.

Harry’s next text pings:

“Duffel never moved; rival fence took the bait. Boris bailed. No one hurt.”

The painting, spirited earlier to a neutral storage locker by a friend in the insurance trade, now waits to be quietly reclaimed.

I show Roger. His grin could light the whole of Brixton.

“Bartley!” he roars toward the back room. “You can stop giggling now, it worked!”

Bartley emerges, flushed with triumph and three energy drinks. “Did you see? I had him cross-referenced on five platforms, I set up a fake Reddit thread, I even—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a bloody genius.” Duke claps him on the shoulder. “Now wipe the whiteboard before someone takes a photo and we all end up on TikTok.”

Darrell finally comes in from his patrol outside, boots tracking wet pavement. He looks at me, grudging respect in his eyes. “Fair play, Dr D.”

Roger pours a round, sets a glass in front of me, lifts his own.

“To the city, to the code—and to those who keep peace by never letting the other fellow see the real move.”

I raise my glass. “Never play the obvious hand, gentlemen.”

The laughter is sharp and real, spilling into the London night—where in some quiet, ancient way, the city itself winks approval at the old fox and his cleverest friend.

---

But then—

The hour tips past midnight. Bartley starts refilling my glass every time I set it down, his laughter growing louder, lingering too long at my sleeve. Darrell glowers from across the room, knuckles white around his pint, watching his brother’s flushed enthusiasm with a warning written in the furrow of his brow.

Roger sees it too. The smile behind his eyes is gone, replaced by storm-cloud concern—a father realising a boundary might soon be crossed.

I feel it all: the loyalty, the rituals, the unspoken rules of this ragged tribe. I know the cost of overstaying—I’ve written chapters on it, lived it in a dozen councils and backwater bars.

Time to go.

I push back my barstool.

“I think it’s time this wandering anthropologist lets the real Boswells enjoy their family business.”

Bartley leans close, hopeful. “C’mon, Elena, let me—”

I shake my head, eyes flicking to Roger. “I’ll call a cab.”

Roger’s jaw sets. “No London cabbie’s getting the honour, luv’. Harry’ll run you back. Family doesn’t let kin wander about, not on a night like this.”

Duke tries a joke to defuse things, but the mood holds—too many lines threatened, too many stories in the room.

Bundled against the cool London mist, I’m ushered out by Harry and Duke, Bartley trailing behind, disappointment barely masked by forced bravado. Roger stands in the doorway’s glow, tipping his battered cap—eyes heavy with gratitude and a touch of regret that some things are always just out of reach.

The drive home is companionable but cautious, a quick tour through sleeping backstreets, radio tuned low. They don’t ask about what just passed or what comes next. It’s the code: tonight, no one needs more trouble.

At my townhouse, Duke walks me to the porch. Harry assures me, “You call if you need anything—anything.”

I thank them both with warmth that, for once, isn’t sardonic. Just real.

The car disappears into the city, taillights a wavering red promise.

I.Ph.

Author’s Note

As you follow Elena through doorways both literal and figurative, you’ll notice the world she inhabits is never quite what it seems. The ‘good baddies’—those charming, rule-bending souls—aren’t guaranteed safe passage. London’s underbelly is restless, and sometimes the shadows that protect you shift their allegiance.

The next act finds our familiar allies tested, confronted by forces as haunted and hungry as the city itself. Loyalties will twist. Those you trust may falter, and the so-called “bad ones” may prove to be more than mere adversaries—they might be the only ones willing to cross the necessary lines.

Keep your eyes sharp and your sympathies nimble. In the landscape of The COMC Files, even the best intentions can be tempted to the darker side, and the worst offenders aren’t always who they first appear.

Enjoy the unravelling—it’s just beginning.

Irena Phaedra