Chapter 1

Max Oliver

The first Monday of the month meant I drove.

Not because I had to. My company, which I co-owned with my friend Bernard Lindsay, ran well without me behind the wheel. We had forty drivers, three dispatchers, and Marge holding the night shift together with the skill of someone who had never once been surprised by London traffic.

Twelve years ago, I had started with one car and the belief that I couldn’t run a transport company from behind a desk, and I hadn’t found sufficient evidence to revise that position. So, on the first Monday of each month, I took the 6am briefing with the morning shift, chose a booking from the schedule, and drove it myself.

This morning’s job was straightforward. Eight o’clock pickup from a Kensington townhouse, direct to Heathrow Terminal 5. The passenger was Thomas Hargrove. I’d driven him perhaps a dozen times over the years, a standing client. He tipped well and spoke little, which, in my experience, described the best kind of passenger.

The Kensington streets were quiet at twenty to eight, the morning commute not yet at full pressure. I pulled up to the townhouse two minutes early and waited, engine idling, watching a pigeon work its way along the iron railings with the determination of something that had nowhere particular to be.

The front door opened at two minutes past eight. Mr Hargrove came down the steps quickly, no pause to check his phone or survey the street, just a direct line to the car. I had the door open before he reached the pavement.

“Mr Hargrove.”

“Mr Oliver.”

He ducked into the backseat without breaking stride. No handshake. Some regulars shook hands. Hargrove never had.

I closed the door and returned to the driver’s seat. In the mirror, I registered the details I had registered with all passengers. Clothing, temperament, luggage. The suit was good, but not the kind of suit he’d usually wear to a meeting. But then, I was taking him to Heathrow. His carry-on sat on the seat beside him rather than in the boot, which was unusual. Most Heathrow runs came with at least one check-in bag. He had none.

“Terminal 5, Heathrow?” I confirmed.

“That’s correct.”

He was looking at his phone before I’d pulled away from the kerb. Not scrolling the way people scroll to pass the time. Reading. Pinched eyebrows, frowning, like he were reading over the same paragraph twice to make sure he’d understood it. His jaw was set.

I took the route through Holland Park, which was quieter than Cromwell Road at this time and usually quicker. Mr Hargrove wasn’t paying attention to the route, which told me he wasn’t a man who tracked roads. He was watching other things. I’d observed that about him in previous drives. He tracked people. He’d once spent an entire journey watching the pavement on his side of the car with the attentiveness of reviewing a decision he’d already made and was checking for gaps.

Today, he was looking at his phone and out of the rear window in roughly equal measure.

I kept my eyes on the road. A good driver is furniture that drives. Bernard’s phrase, from the early days. I had used it so many times training new staff that it had become a reflex. Whatever was in the back of the car was none of my business unless it became my business, and Hargrove’s agitation was well within the normal range of powerful men heading to airports with things on their minds.

We made good time. The M4 was moving freely, and I had him at the terminal drop-off by eight fifty-three.

“Safe travels, Mr Hargrove.”

He was already away from the car, carry-on in hand, moving toward the entrance without looking back. I watched him go out of professional habit rather than interest. He walked like a man with a flight due to leave soon, not like a man going on holiday.

I noted it the way I noted everything. Filed and set aside. The job was done.

I got back in the car, pulled away from the drop-off and headed back toward the city, thinking about nothing in particular except whether Marge had remembered to arrange the valet service for the Thursday fleet inspection.

~~~

The following morning, the glow of the large TV screen bolted to the wall next to my desk glared at me as I watched Richard Philips being escorted from his Mayfair home in handcuffs. Eight-fifteen in the morning, and I’d been sitting in the same position for over an hour, watching the footage that had broken across every news channel since I’d turned on the screens when I arrived at Elite Transport offices.

“Financial giant Philips Group faces unprecedented scrutiny as founder Richard Philips was taken into custody on charges of fraud, embezzlement, and securities violations …”

The reporter’s voice had become white noise after the twentieth repetition.

I leaned back in my chair, squinting at the TV.

Elite Transport had been my life for twelve years. My business partner, Bernard Lindsay, and I built it from the ground up. A single town car and a rented garage space to a fleet of forty luxury vehicles, a building we owned on the docklands in London, and a client list that included the UK’s elite.

Richard Philips was one of our clients.

On screen, Richard Philips’ face filled the frame. His thick head of silver hair was perfect despite the hour, his bespoke suit unwrinkled. Even in disgrace, the man maintained his composure. The only tell was in his eyes. They were cold, calculating, and now furious.

“Sources close to the investigation suggest financial irregularities dating back over a decade… Multiple Philips Group subsidiaries are implicated in what prosecutors are calling a systematic pattern of financial manipulation…”

I took a sip of my coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“The arrest comes after months of investigation led by the Financial Conduct Authority working in conjunction with—”

My desk phone rang, sharp and sudden in the early quiet. I silenced the news feed with the remote and picked up.

“Max Oliver.”

“Boss, it’s Kemp.” Simon Kempton was one of our dispatchers. His voice was tight and clipped. “We’ve got a situation at the garage entrance.”

I straightened in my chair, alert.

“What kind of situation?”

“Police. Two unmarked cars and four officers. They’re asking for you specifically.”

My eyes flicked to the news screen, the Philips arrest footage still playing.

“Did they say what they want?”

“No, sir. Just that they need to speak with you urgently. I told them you weren’t available until nine. They insisted on waiting.”

“They requested only me, not Bernard?”

“Just you.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. Bernard hadn’t answered his phone since yesterday evening after the cryptic text he sent to me.

Bernard: Accounts don’t balance. Meeting contact tonight. Will explain tomorrow. Look in the base of the vase.

“Have they shown identification?”

“Yes, sir. Detective Inspector Davies from Central. Serious Crime Division.”

Serious Crime. That was not good news.

“Tell them I’ll be down in five minutes,” I said, already reaching for the jacket draped over my chair. “And Kemp? Don’t mention this to anyone else yet.”

“Understood.” He hesitated. “Sir, should I call Mr Lindsay?”

“No.” I stood, feeling the stiffness in my back from sitting motionless. “I’ll call him after I’ve spoken with the police.”

Ending the call, I glanced once more at the screen. Richard Philips was being guided into the back of a police car, his expression impassive. The headline crawling beneath him read:

PHILIPS ARREST JUST THE BEGINNING—INVESTIGATORS SAY MORE REVELATIONS TO COME.

I straightened my collar, ran a hand through my hair in an attempt at respectability, and was on my way to the door when a sharp knock at the door stopped me halfway through buttoning my jacket.

Three quick raps, professional, impatient.

I swallowed, tasting the remnants of bitter coffee on my tongue, and moved to answer it. My hand hesitated on the handle for just a moment before I pulled it open, squaring my shoulders against whatever waited on the other side.

The man standing in my doorway wore a raincoat darkened by the downpour outside, water still beading on his shoulders. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his watchful eyes showed he’d seen too much to be easily surprised.

“Mr Oliver?”

His voice matched his appearance, solid, unembellished.

“Yes.” I stepped back, gesturing him inside. “And you are?”

“Detective Inspector Davies, Serious Crime Division.”

“I thought I was coming to you?”

He produced his warrant card, holding it steady until I’d taken a proper look.

“I thought I’d save you the time and come to you,” he said, glancing around my office.

I nodded, watching him move to the centre of the room. Then I closed the door.

“I take it this is urgent?”

DI Davies glanced around my office, taking in the screen still playing the Philips arrest coverage. His expression revealed nothing, but something in his posture tightened.

“You’ve been following the news, I see,” he said.

“Hard to miss.”

I moved toward my desk but didn’t sit.

Neither did he.

DI Davies pocketed his warrant card. The steady drumming of rain against the windows filled the silence.

“I’m here about Bernard Lindsay.”

My chest constricted.

“What about him?”

DI Davies held my gaze, unblinking.