The Network

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The black Range Rover cruised through the streets of Tottenham, North London, the tinted windows hiding the two men inside. It drew both admiring and threatening looks from the youths who seemed to infest the pavements outside, yellow lights from the open shops illuminating their hooded figures even though the time approached ten p.m. — the demands of imported cultures ensured the streets stayed alive well into the night. The traffic along the Seven Sisters Road was as busy as most streets would be at rush hour — a mixture of small-time drug dealers and lost causes who fancied themselves as gangsters, always on the lookout for a rival crew to wreak havoc on, but only so long as they outnumbered them. Knives would be drawn and young lives lost. The owner of a decent semi-automatic could rise quickly to king in a place like this, their coronation fanfare the ubiquitous wail of sirens.

Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan flicked the indicator on to turn right onto Park Lane, next to the Spurs Football Ground. His passenger looked across at him. ‘That’s a no right turn,’ DC Zack Benton told him, his dark skin making his face almost invisible in the car’s dim interior.

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