It had been a week since Grey and Turner had been back to the racecourse. The team was dismantled to a skeleton crew of junior detectives while the administration wrapped up the paperwork. Grey was in charge of overseeing the shutdown. Evidence had been shipped out and consigned to the recesses of a dusty warehouse somewhere. Interviews ended with lingering witnesses, including some who had come forward with new information, their statements now shredded into pieces in a paper shredder. In effect, the investigation was now officially terminated on Roland Blackwell’s orders. Turner and Grey watched half-heartedly as the last vestiges of monitors, servers, and communications desks were carted out of the Command Center before being loaded onto police evidence vans. The sun beat down on their backs, and they could feel the sweat trickling down their necks. Turner sighed as he surveyed the empty marquee.

  “All that work. All those bloody nights, and for what? To get boxed up and forgotten.”

  “Yep, I could use a rest,” Grey replied. “These headaches have been plaguing me all week. And my ringing ears. I just can’t put my finger on it for the life of me?”

  “Probably from the stress, guv.”

  “I’m hoping a couple of weeks off at home with Julia and the twins will help.”

  “What about you, Turner?”

  “After the month we’ve had, I could use a proper holiday. I’m picturing tall jugs of sangria with little pink umbrellas lying on a beach somewhere in Spain.”

  “Sounds good. But I’m wondering how much longer I can do this between the corruption and the Roland Blackwell’s of this world. The whole system is a big pile of steaming shit. I have a good pension and an OBE now.”

  “I can’t blame you, guv; even I have been thinking of moving on. Take a couple of weeks off. We can go for a pint in London somewhere when we get back.”

  “I’ll do that. And thanks, Turner. Honestly, I don’t even know who’s bent anymore.”

  “Of course, mate. That’s what friends are for.”

  Grey extended his hand. “Right then, you enjoy that break of yours. And we’ll talk later.”

  The moment the final evidence truck pulled away, Grey and Turner watched as a meaty-looking prisoner transport van hurtled toward them. They looked at each other, worried. “Damn, what now?”

  “Bloody hell, guv. What the hell is a detention wagon doing here?”

  Grim-faced officers stared through the windows, bumping over the ruts on the tarmac.

  “Stay calm, Turner. Let’s see what they want; it might be nothing.”

  Two officers, built like brick shithouses, vomited out onto the tarmac. A third followed—a wiry man with slicked-back hair and a smirk. All three surveyed the empty Command Center, their eyes darting from Grey to Turner.

  “Inspector Grey. Detective Turner,” the wiry officer said.

  “My name is Constable Johnson. My badge number is 3838383. You’re under arrest for treason and violating the Official Secrets Act. The time is 10:30 AM, August 2, 2024. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you disclose now can be used against you. Do you understand?”

  Grey shouted. “This is a bloody farce. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Easy, guv. Wait till we see our brief. It’s probably a misunderstanding. We’ll come quietly, but we want our solicitor present?”

  “Shut it, both of you,” one of the officers snapped. “You’ll get a solicitor when we say so.”

  Grey and Turner locked eyes, fear evident in their expressions. Turner whispered, "Keep schtum!"

  The two officers seized their arms, hustling them toward the rear of the dark blue prison van. Its armored paneling was splayed in graffiti, including the words ‘pigs’ and ‘all coppers are bastards’ in yellow spray paint.

  “This is it, Turner. We’re going to the nick.”

  “We’re getting royally stitched up!”

  Constable Johnson continued, “You are both going into custody on serious allegations, boys.”

  One of the officers opened the van doors, barking. “Get in the back.”

  Grey and Turner got crammed into the alcove, suffering the guard’s stale body odor. Constable Johnson wedged himself in, sealing the claustrophobic space. Muffled men’s voices traveled acoustically through a small lattice grille welded into a steel door. Overhead, the lamplight spilled a yellow, prison-like glow. The ventilation droned like a dying air conditioner. A single, uncomfortable bench lined the wall, facing a small perforated aluminum table, and a plain mirror reflecting their misery.

  Johnson hollered, “You go stand by the table. Strip now,” jabbing a finger at Grey.

  Grey’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”

  “Come on, that’s a bit excessive,” Turner said. “How about a little professional courtesy here?”

  “Gunner, Brummie, should I give this little upstart some professional courtesy?”

  “I think you should give him the full works, boss. What do you think, Brummie?”

  “I think they should get the gold service, Gunner,” Brummie said with a grin.

  Johnson retrieved his baton from his utility belt, thrusting it into Grey’s back. “Now, I told you to strip!”

  Grey winced in discomfort. “You’re a bastard, Johnson. This is not the protocol, and you know it!”

  Fumbling with each button, Grey shook from the cold as he reluctantly unbuttoned his shirt. He tried to avoid making eye contact with Gunner and Brummie. But he was exposed to their smirks and leers burning into his skin from their reflections in the mirror. A blush of shame crept up his neck, making him vulnerable. Turner was sitting on the bench. His pride visibly crumbled as he witnessed his friend’s dehumanizing ordeal.

  “Don’t worry, Detective Turner. You’ll get your turn!”

  Johnson quickly returned his attention to Grey, who was struggling to get his trousers off. “Hurry up; we haven’t got all day.”

  Once he was undressed, Grey was wholly enveloped in a sense of foreboding as Johnson put on the white latex gloves. The sinister audible snap served as a prelude to what would be an intense encounter. Gunner taunted.

  “I’ve never seen a copper with tits before! What do you think, Brummie?”

  “These coppers look like a right pair of tits, Gunner!”

  “Bend over the table, spread your legs. Cough!” ordered Johnson.

  The glove scratched like sandpaper as Johnson groped Grey’s torso. The table’s surface bit into his bare skin and Johnson’s smirk only widened as his hands moved to more sensitive areas.

  All the guards roared with laughter, yet the search continued—remorseless and relentless. After what felt like an eternity, Grey was allowed to dress back into his clothing for another round of degrading mockery. Johnson then cuffed his wrists and ankles.

  “Face the wall,” Johnson barked.

  Doing as he was told, Grey pressed against the metal wall, with Johnson’s eyes stuck into his back. It was now Turner’s turn to be searched.

  Johnson thrust a finger. “You. Next!”

  Johnson’s thorough pat-down left no part of Turner’s body untouched, making him feel like an animal being displayed for the amusement of others. As Johnson concluded his business, he gestured.

  “It looks like we’ve got a matching set, boys!”

  More jeering laughter filled the compartment. Once Johnson was pleased with his open display of authority, Turner was shackled and facing the wall next to Grey.

  “Gunner, Brummie, open the door to the main hold.”

  Gunner’s massive hand turned the doorknob. It swung inward with an industrial clang, opening up to a lamped interior. Gunner and Brummie dragged Grey and Turner by their arms, causing their shackles to clink together. They were hurled into a tangled heap upon the unforgiving metal grating. Grey and Turner looked up; they weren’t alone. Fifteen prisoners in sweatboxes rattled the mesh of their cages, jeering and whistling at the sight of fresh new meat. Its cramped, fetid interior smelt of sweat, piss, and odious body odor. Grey’s headache throbbed some more. Turner’s grave expression greeted his own; they both understood the daunting reality awaiting them as men accused of treason. Johnson walked down the gangway, holding up their ID cards. He grinned, displaying them to the captive audience.

  “Gentlemen. I’ve got a little treat for you. We’ve got some coppers coming to stay where you’re off to!”

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  The sturdy plastic cards proudly displayed the official emblems of their respective police forces: Grey’s with the iconic Metropolitan Police crest. Turner’s bore the distinguished insignia of the West Midlands Police.

  “I’m sure you’ll all be very pleased to see them. After all, what’s a prison without a couple of bitches to feed on?”

  A rough voice broke the captive silence. “Well, looky here, lads, fresh meat for the grinder.”

  One of the caged prisoners sneered at them. “You’re gonna get right fucked up the arse in the big house.”

  Another prisoner of Jamaican descent joined in. “Pigs, you won’t last a week in Liverpool. You’re getting shanked, blood!”

  Johnson scraped his baton along the wire mesh, riling up his detainees. “This is what happens to bent coppers.”

  He walked to the front of the van, slamming the door with a final thud, sealing them inside. Gunner shoved Grey and Turner into separate cages, strapping each onto a steel bench with a frigid smile. The prisoners taunted Grey and Turner, stripping away the last traces of their former authority. A man with a shaved head, wearing a scar across his face, spat a lump of spittle at Grey; however, it missed and landed on the floor with a wet splash. Another prisoner, with a tattooed teardrop under his eye, tried to spit at Turner; this one just stuck to the mesh of his cage and dripped down.

  “Turner, we’ve been stabbed in the back by Petrov and Uncle; it’s got to be them?”

  “Or that Roland Blackwell geezer!”

  “We’re going to get killed the moment we step foot in the prison.”

  “Guv, it looks like Spain’s off the table.”

  “We have to get out of this mess.”

  “How? We’re chained up in the back of a van with a bunch of hardened nutcases, guv!”

  “I don’t bloody know!”

  Grey watched the racetrack disintegrate through the small, purple-tinted window. The van plodded through busy city streets. Every few minutes brought the sound of a nearby engine or a car horn blaring. He tried focusing on Julia and the kids, imagining their smiling faces. But he couldn’t escape the prison van’s inexorable progress. Each stoplight propelled him further away from his old life. Now he was just another number in the prison system. Another cog in the machine. He felt the van turn a corner, picking up speed, carrying them into the bleak, gray dawn of their new reality. HMP Liverpool soon blurred into view. They drove through the iron-gated archway, rolling to a stop within a secure courtyard. Johnson’s face appeared as the side doors were wrenched open, exposing the daunting Victorian prison. Its high walls and watchtowers projected an aura of gloom from its decaying exterior.

  “Brummie, Gunner, take them in,” Johnson instructed.

  “It will be a pleasure,” Gunner replied.

  Like a couple of show ponies, Grey and Turner were paraded in front of the inmates. The hulking man with the scarred face and the prisoner with the teardrop tattoo gawked at them. This time, a thick glob of saliva hit Grey square in the face. Turner was then struck by a spray of spittle from the tear-dropped tattooed prisoner. Grey, wiping the drool, peeked at Turner. Though humiliation burned inside, they had to let the insult slide. For now, more challenges awaited. Gunner laughed out loud.

  “Welcome to the zoo, boys. The monkeys are gonna be well excited to meet the new arrivals.”

  He shoved Grey and Turner out into the glaring afternoon sun. HMP Liverpool seemed to stretch for miles in every direction. Grey felt the grit of concrete, surrounded by brown cigarette butts underfoot. Barbed wire enclosed the perimeter, broken by courtyards, stretching like football fields. Guard towers stood every two hundred yards. The buildings themselves were in poor condition, with crumbling red brickwork.

  “It’s not exactly the Ritz, is it, guv?”

  “No doubt, Turner. I’m certain we’ll encounter some very familiar faces that we’ve helped put within these walls.”

  Grey winced in pain as Gunner’s baton pressed into his kidneys. “No time for idle chit-chat, girls. Let’s keep moving.”

  “Give him another one, Gunner!” said Brummie.

  “Let me guess. You’re Tweedle Dum and you’re Tweedle Dee. I bet you were both too stupid to pass the police entrance exam.”

  “Speaking of entrances,” said Gunner. “We have a special one reserved just for both of you. Now move forward—if you please!”

  Crossing the final third of the yard, the cries of the inmates grew louder from the small air vents above. It felt like they were being marched into a hive of angry bees. They approached a heavy set of doors. Gunner forced them to a halt. He yanked them open and pushed them through.

  “Say goodbye to your nice civilian clothes, boys.”

  Several gloved British prison guards greeted Grey and Turner as Constable Johnson was at a desk filling in their paperwork, ready to collect their belongings. The preprocessing room was banal at best, except for a few posters warning of the penalties for smuggling contraband into the prison.

  “Time for another striptease,” Gunner teased.

  “But we have already been searched,” Turner said.

  “What search was that, Turner? I don’t remember no search; what do you think, Brummie?”

  “Yeah, Gunner, what strip search was that? What do you think, Grey?”

  “I want to see my solicitor, and while I’m at it, I’m going to file a full complaint report when I get out of here.”

  “I think you’re getting a little bit confused. Who said anything about you getting out? Oh, and by the way, your services in the police force have been terminated,” Gunner said.

  Johnson finished processing the paperwork. “Strip ‘em, and take them to D wing.”

  “We haven’t got any choice, guv.”

  “Just suck it up, Turner. We will get this straightened out somehow.”

  Gunner and Brummie exchanged a look as the guards stepped forward, about to conduct another round of intrusive body searches. Once again, Grey and Turner had to bend over, as the guards tossed their belongings into bin liners. With the handover complete, Gunner and Brummie strolled out, engaged in conversation.

  “Brummie, fancy going for a pint?”

  “Why, Gunner, I don’t mind if I do!”

  “What about the Lion? They have the good stuff on tap.”

  The situation was not improving for Grey and Turner. The delousing room was covered in a thick layer of dust, with plastic stalls waiting like tombs. Prison guards wearing gas masks and white overalls were already dousing the naked inmates. Add to that, the smell was like a concoction of ammonia and bleach.

  “In here,” the officers said. “Stand in the stalls; stand under the showers.”

  Separated by a high partition, Grey and Turner stood under the old shower heads, with the occasional drip, dripping on them from a previous inmate’s shower. The officers closed the stall doors and began spraying them all over. Caustic powder irritated Grey and Turner’s eyes, making them watery and blurry.

  “Take a shower. Get out of the stalls,” they ordered robotically.

  Once dried, they were outfitted in standard prison attire and escorted along a dreary concrete corridor, passing through the control access point of the Sally port door. Overhead lamps bathed gray battleship-like walls, assaulting Grey’s senses as he stepped onto the landing. Violence could erupt at any moment on D wing, where the most dangerous men in Britain now shared their home. A Chinese whisper spread along the hallway, as inmates passed the newcomers’ names on a piece of paper. Shouts of pigs and scum bounced off the other levels of the landings, fully immersing them in the prison system.

  “This is it, guv. This is where we’re going to spend the rest of our lives. They don’t let anybody out for treason.”

  “No shit, Sherlock! I don’t need you to point out the obvious. I know we’re fucked!”

  “Welcome to your new home,” one of the guards sneered, pushing them inside a cell door. Locks slid violently into place with boots walking away. Their cell was filthy, with a metal toilet, a double bunk with thin soiled mattresses, and a gross sink. A stench of decay saturated everything. Grey sat down, his mind racing furiously on the lower bunk, piecing together fragments of their surroundings.

  “Turner, we have to use our noddles here. A weakness in the system has to exist.”

  “The guards have routines. We can check out the layout of the prison. We might befriend a few inmates. They could give us the lowdown, guv!”

  “I like your train of thought, Turner. The problem is nobody would want a couple of pigs as mates.”

  “We could pull in a few favors from the yard. Help with a few appeals for blokes doing bird in here. It might cut us a little slack.”

  “It’s a start, Turner.”

  The small flap of their cell door slid open unexpectedly. A woman’s grave yet commanding expression stared at Grey and Turner.

  “What a surprise! Chief Superintendent Maya Khan,” said Grey dryly. “The new puppet head of Scotland Yard. I suspect you have something to do with us being in here?”

  “What do you want, Khan?” demanded Turner. “Come to gloat?”

  “It’s not like you think. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied.”

  “Tied by who exactly?” quizzed Grey.

  Khan looked over her shoulder. “They’re watching me. I have very little time to explain.”

  “Then spit it out, then, you daft woman!” said Grey.

  “MI6, Downing Street… Petrov. They’ve stitched you up. The charges, the evidence—it’s all fabricated.”

  Grey and Turner sprang to their feet. “What have they planted on us? I need to know,” Grey asked.

  “Petrov, Blackwell, Aurelia Ironheart. They are all in on it. They forged documents with Interpol. They got you on money laundering charges with Russia. You got too close, I’m afraid.”

  Turner asked in shock. “Bollocks. How can we get out of it?”

  “You can’t. All I can offer is what I know. And you are in no position to verify.”

  She leaned closer. “The corruption is from the top down; with Russia’s meddling, you never had a chance. I’m only telling you this because you both deserve to know the injustice being done to you.”

  “Is there a trial? What are our prison terms? There must be a paper trail somewhere; can you get us a solicitor?” Grey demanded.

  Khan started to close the flap. “You’re right not to trust me. But I didn’t sign up for this either. If I could help you. I would. But they’re watching me too. One wrong move, and I’ll be joining you in here. I can’t lose my new promotion for you two!”

  Grey called out. “Wait! Hold on, give us another minute.”

  “She’s gone, guv. That’s the only free pass we got. What do you think she’s really up to?”

  “I don’t trust her, Turner. She’s part of the system that set us up.”

  “I’m with you, guv. But we have no allies, not a bloody legal leg to stand on, and to be fair, you did commit treason against the royal family.”

  “Turner. We’re going to escape.”

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find a way.”

  “But how?” Turner asked again.

  “We’re locked up in here with the most dangerous criminals in Britain!”

  “Turner, if we get killed in here, none of it matters anyway.”