London, Heathrow – Terminal 5

I walk out of the arrivals gate with Mitra at my side. Roger Boswell is impossible to miss in the crowd—tall above the waiting clusters, his trench coat open despite the late afternoon chill. Beside him, his son Harry holds my gaze, a younger version of his father, the sly glint of recognition there before we even reach each other.

There’s the brief clasp of hands, the dry warmth of an English greeting that always says far more than it shows.

“Thank you,” I say to Mitra, turning with a grin. “Now keep safe—we’ll meet again, but in the sauna next time.”

Roger steps in before she can answer, his voice carrying that market-bred rasp. “Your boys are wonderful lookouts. You’ll be paid in full—and not just with money. You’ve made this leg easy.”

Mitra’s answering smile is slight but pleased. She slips away into the crowd, already on her own trajectory home.

Outside, the car waits—a long, dark sedan breathing softly in the cool air. Harry takes the keys from the driver, but it’s Roger who holds the rear door for me. I slide inside, the door closing with that expensive hush only a high-engineered vehicle makes.

The Ride

Harry takes the Westway first, London stretching inward under a pale sky, then begins the slow, deliberate weave into the moneyed heart of the city.

Chelsea comes in a gradual sweep, its Georgian terraces lined in white stucco, smart cafés spilling late customers onto the pavement, and flower boxes still bravely holding colour. I watch chic mothers shepherd double prams along the King’s Road, a reminder that here, even leisure is curated.

From there into Kensington—streets tighten into crescents and private gardens glimpsed between wrought-iron gates. Embassies hide behind discreet brass plaques. The rhythm of the car slows, the traffic here being more parade than flow. I catch myself noting patrol patterns, the quiet presence of black-windowed SUVs parked just far enough apart to be nothing, or something.

Belgravia follows—all creamy stucco and symmetry, the corners patrolled by glossy black doors with lion’s-head knockers, the kind of place where history and money have long since agreed to maintain appearances. Roger speaks occasionally, pointing out a renovation here, a notable owner there. Mostly the hum of the road and the muted thrum of London wrap the ride in quiet inevitability.

I lean my head against the glass for a moment, watching the city filter by. This is my terrain—polished on the surface, unpredictable in its depths. Ahead, my townhouse waits in one of Belgravia’s pale, perfectly aligned streets: a return disguised as arrival.

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The sedan rolls to a stop on a quiet Belgravia street, where identical cream façades stand shoulder-to-shoulder like polite sentries. My townhouse door waits—polished brass, black gloss, steps scrubbed to the bone.

Harry is already out of the driver’s seat, moving to take my bags. Roger stays back a beat, one forearm hooked over the roof of the car, his sharp, weather-bitten gaze sweeping the nearly empty street.

As I straighten and step onto the pavement, he tilts his head toward me—a crook of a smile ghosting the corner of his mouth.

“Ain’t all this pretty,” he rasps, voice steeped in the grit of market stalls and backroom deals. Then, in that unmistakable pikey drawl:

“‘Avin’ brought evidence ‘ome, love?”

I blink at him, caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “Evidence?” I echo, tilting my head. “What the hell are you on about now, Roger?”

He only grins, a private little curve of the mouth, like a man sitting on a joke no one else is going to get.

I shake my head, chuckling as I mount the steps. No missed clues in my mind—nothing to miss. If Roger thinks my slower gait or the flush in my cheeks means something… well, that’s his business.

Harry swings the shiny black door open, and warm air from the hallway slips around my shoulders. I step inside, still wondering what kind of “evidence” the old fox thinks I’m smuggling into Belgravia.

I.Ph.