And Radley was worse than most.
Late forties. Smug. Every inch the respectable entrepreneur and philanthropist, all glossy magazine spreads and charity galas. A public mask polished so bright it dazzled. But Warren knew better. Behind the ingratiating smile was a man who ran his empire on blood and fear. A criminal mastermind hiding in plain sight.
Untouchable?Enter DS Warren Jamari Beckford.
“Radley has embedded himself in Worthbridge and the surrounding towns for more than fifteen years.” Patel addressed the room as if none of them already knew this. “On record, his portfolio looks clean. Property development, a scrap metal dealership, and a network of cleaning and security firms. All registered, all compliant. But intelligence assessments identify him as the principal of a regional organised crime group. His OCG structure is layered: facilitators, recruiters, enforcers. His enterprise provides cover for money laundering, assetmovement, and control of territory. At its core, the group is trafficking-led. Coercion-based recruitment is their main driver. Targeting vulnerable teenagers and young adults, particularly those with care backgrounds, debt issues, or mental health vulnerabilities. Once brought in, victims are controlled through intimidation, violence, and dependency. This isn’t a street-level gang. It’s a structured criminal business model, and its commodity is people.”
She clicked again.
The slide shifted: grainy stills of petrol stations, alleyway handovers, school gates.
“He’s good at securing loyalty. Half the kids he uses don’t even realise they’re victims. The ones who do rarely speak, and when they do, it’s under duress.” She let the silence breathe, allowing it all to sink in. “But this year, things escalated. Fourteen-year-old Alfie Carter, a student at Worthbridge Academy, tried to report one of Radley’s lookouts. He was attacked for it. His father, ex-army Staff Sergeant Nathan Carter, stepped in and nearly lost his life. The incident forced Radley’s crew underground. Not long after, a string of arson attacks tore through properties linked to Radley’s businesses. Were they covering their tracks? Almost certainly. Then it escalated when Worthbridge Academy was set ablaze. Alfie Carter was trapped inside. If it weren’t for the bravery of firefighters, he may well have lost his life. The connection is there for anyone to see.”
Another slide.
This time: scenes from the fire. Smoke. Flashing lights. A stretcher.
“We believe the fire was deliberate. An escalation tactic set by one of Radley’s own runners inside the school. A warning. A message to anyone else tempted to talk. But it backfired. Since that night, we’ve seen movement. Slips. Cracks in the façade. Radley’s network isn’t the fortress it used to be. Fear’s creepingin, and when fear takes hold?” She peered at the room under her lashes. “People make mistakes. The kind we can use.”
She turned back to the slides.
“This operation isn’t about pressure. Or arrest quotas. No fast turnarounds. We’re not here to spook Radley. We’re here to bleed him dry. From the inside out.” A pause. Then she looked at Warren. “This is where you come in.”
But before Warren could question anything, the briefing room door clicked open, and every head turned towards it.
“Apologies.” Naomi Delaney entered the room with all the grace Warren had once admired.
His pulse stalled, then plummeted.
She still looked the same. Slim build, sharp cheekbones, skin a warm bronze-gold, those honey-brown spirals pinned up, not a strand out of place. Beneath the professional polish was where the danger lay, though. Cool control, coiled like a fuse that had once blown up half his life. And she scanned the room as if it were a chessboard, nodding to Patel, then her gaze settled on him. There was a flicker. Barely there, but enough. A pause where none should’ve been. Then she gave a small, civil nod. Professional. Impersonal. Almost.
It hit harder than any punch.
Warren sat back, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Of all the ops. Of all the towns. Of all the officers they could’ve dragged back in…
Great.
Fucking great.
DI Patel cleared her throat. “DS Delaney. Thanks for joining us.”
Naomi nodded, removing her cropped leather jacket and folding into a seat near the end of the table. Purposefully not next to Warren. Though he felt her presence like a pinched nerve. She looked up at the screen, all calm efficiency.
Patel clicked to the next slide: a high-resolution image of Vivienne Radley, stepping out of a spa in Brighton, sunglasses perched on her sculpted cheekbones, a designer bag on her arm. Close behind her was a man mid-conversation.
“Operation Ambrose is our primary insertion,” Patel said. “Vivienne Radley, Graham’s wife, is under increasing pressure. Financials are showing cracks in their lifestyle, her public movements have changed, and we believe she’s begun a romantic relationship with criminal defence lawyer and Radley’s long-term legal shield, Ethan Morgan.”
Another click. Surveillance stills: Vivienne and Morgan at a secluded beach café, hands touching too long over coffee. Then another at a private gym. Their closeness undeniable.
“We believe Vivienne is reaching a breaking point. Tired, possibly disillusioned. That’s where DS Delaney comes in. She’s been inserted as Naomi Weeler, a high-end domestic manager offering discreet concierge services.”
Naomi spoke up. “So far, I’ve been assisting with household scheduling, private security rotations, and travel logistics. Vivienne’s already invited me in. Shopping, spa days, school pickups. The groundwork’s done.”
“She’s positioning herself,” Patel added. “When Vivienne talks, and she will, we want her talking to us.”
There was a pause. Patel let that sink in.
