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worst thing?” Marisa said quietly, sadness permeating her very being. “That was the last thing I saw before I went under. That emotionless face is the face I see e very night when I fall asleep.”
    The job done, the three men excused themselves and walked to the door. When they arrived at the nurses’ station Ben thought of something, and asked the others to wait as he went back to the injured woman’s bedside.
    “Sorry to trouble you again, Marisa, but I just wanted to say that just over a year ago I fractured my skull in a training accident. I was in an induced coma for a few hours until the swelling went down. I knew my career in rugby was over. I used to play a bit of professional rugby back then, but friends and family gathered around and I realised that they w ere what was really important.”
    Ben reached underneath his polo shirt collar and removed a necklace. It was a very simple thing, a thin leather cord about twenty four inches long, from which hung an oval pendant filled with a clear crystal. The semi precious paua stone was beautiful. It was shot through with hues of green, aqua and blue with slivers of clear transparent crystal. Ben gently put it over Marisa’s head until the stone rested on her chest, over her hospital gown.
    “I was told this was a Maori healing stone and it certainly worked for me. I pray that it works for you, too.” Ben placed her two hands, one on top of the other, between his hands and said a few words in Maori that Marisa did not understand. “The hands that do good works are blessed,” he translated before smiling and leaving her alone. Marisa was admiring her new necklace when the nurse came in and spoke to her. “Well, lucky you! A visit from Ben Fogarty!”
    “Who?” Marisa asked in all innocence.
    “Ben Fogarty, the best All Blacks winger in over a generation, that’s who!”
    “So, Ben Fog arty, you used to play a bit of rugby at one time, did you?” Marisa thought to herself, as her smile tried valiantly to make a comeback.
     

Chapter 7
     
    Pat Byrne Betting, Tottenham High Street, London, UK.
    Saturday 13th August 2011; 11:10am.
     
    Ben despaired at the damage they encountered on the way to the raid. The aftermath of the riots resembled a war zone, the streets ravaged by several nights of mindless violence. Buildings were burned out, the roads and pavements scarred and most shops were still boarded up. It looked like Beirut. Now, as he sat in the back of the stationary blue X5 with Scott and Fellowes in the front, a tactical team, fully armoured and armed, pushed open the door to the betting shop and streamed in. The shouting and screaming could be heard down the street.
    ***
    Den Grierson was sitting in the office conducting a little business with a European of indeterminate origins, although his business pseudonym of Romany Joe offered a clue.  Romany Joe could bring more girls in for Dennis to run, but only on a leasing basis. Joe would not sell them, as he had done in the past.
    “Leasing, it is the future,” the Romany said. “I have been reading book from America, ‘Lease your way to business success’, and now I am a changed man.” The two men could have been talking about cars, but they were negotiating over the monthly leasing rates for young teenage Romany girls sold by their families, or stolen from them by the traffickers. Suddenly they heard yelling and shouting from the front of the shop.
    Both men jumped up. Den grabbed his bag and snarled, “Follow me.” The two men raced down a grimy corridor, past the toilet and out of a fire exit, where four armed police were waiting.
    “Shit!” Psycho spat, realising that one way or another he was going back to jail. The two men resignedly moved their hands behind their backs, ready for cuffing. A police officer in plain clothes , whom Den knew well, stepped forward.
    “Well, Dennis, haven’t seen you for a wh ile. I thought you’d retired.”
    “I have, Inspector Todd. I was just