Read Chapter 8: The First Crack

The man’s name was Terry Voss, and he had a file thicker than Marcus’s forearm.

Detective Inspector Raj Patel of the Metropolitan Police’s stalking and harassment unit slid the folder across the scarred table in the cramped interview room. Patel was a wiry man with a perpetually tired expression, the kind of copper who’d seen every variation of obsession the city could produce.

“Three complaints in the last four years,” Patel said, tapping the file. “All from women in the public eye. A minor soap actress, a radio presenter, and a reality television contestant who got a bit too famous for her own good.”

Marcus turned the pages. Terry Voss, forty-one, freelance photographer. The mugshot was recent—a thin face, sharp cheekbones, eyes that held a practiced innocence. “And the outcome?”

“Never stuck.” Patel shrugged. “Voss knows the law better than most solicitors. He photographs them from public pavement. He sends letters to their management. He never threatens directly, never approaches, never touches. He’s meticulous.”

“But they all felt watched.”

“They were. That’s the thing. Each of those women described the same sensation—being photographed when they couldn’t see the camera. Being followed but never caught. He’s got a skill for it.” Patel paused. “It’s why we flagged him when you called. Your man fits the description perfectly.”

Marcus set down the file. “Where can I find him?”

“You can’t. He’s not at his registered address. But he’s been spotted working the circuit—film premieres, theatre openings, that sort of thing. He’s got a sister in Hackney who sometimes lets him crash when he’s between flats.” Patel slid a piece of paper across the table. “That’s her address. I’m giving this to you off the record because I’d rather someone with your background keep an eye on this situation than read about Evelyn Hart in the morning papers.”

Marcus pocketed the address. “He photographed her at a closed audition. How would he have known?”

“That’s the part that bothers me.” Patel leaned forward. “Closed auditions don’t leak. Anyone inside would find themselves blacklisted so fast their head would spin. Voss doesn’t have those connections. He works alone—paparazzi are sharks, but even sharks have territory, and Voss is a loner.”

“So someone told him.”

“Or hired him.” Patel’s eyes held Marcus’s. “You think this connects to your London problem?”

It wasn’t a real question. Patrick Hendricks’s face flashed in Marcus’s mind—the way he’d looked when they’d last served together. Capable. Trustworthy. A man who’d once saved Marcus’s life with his field medicine skills and who was now missing after taking a security job that had somehow led him to photographing a reclusive actress.

“I think there’s a thread,” Marcus said slowly, “and I’m still pulling it.”

---

The Hackney house was a narrow Victorian terrace squeezed between a launderette and a kebab shop. Dusk had settled over the street, and the amber glow of streetlights painted the pavement with long shadows. Marcus had walked the block three times before approaching the door—an old habit from another life that he’d never managed to shake.

He knocked twice. A woman in her fifties opened the door, her face creasing into suspicion when she saw him.

“I’m looking for Terry.”

“He’s not here.” She started to close the door.

Marcus put a hand against it. “I’m not police. I’m not press. I’m a private security consultant, and I need to know who hired him.”

Something flickered in her eyes—not fear, but resignation. She opened the door a fraction wider. “Terry’s always been a fool, but he’s not a bad man. He just wants to take pictures of pretty people.”

“He photographed a client of mine without consent. At a private location. That’s a professional concern.”

“What client?”

“Evelyn Hart.”

The name landed like a stone. The woman’s face went pale, and she glanced back into the darkened house before stepping out onto the doorstep, pulling the door mostly shut behind her.

“He told me not to say anything,” she whispered. “But he was scared. I haven’t seen Terry scared since we were kids and our dad came home drunk.”

“Who hired him?”

“He wouldn’t say. Just that it was a man with money.” She wrung her hands. “Said the man knew things. Knew where Terry was before he got there. Knew his routine. Knew everything.”

Marcus felt the familiar cold settle in his stomach. “A man like that isn’t difficult to recognize if you know what you’re looking at.”

“Terry recognized it. Said the man had a military bearing. Precise. Cold. But he paid well—more than Terry makes in a month. All he had to do was photograph Evelyn Hart at the audition and deliver the pictures. No contact. No following her home. Just the one job.”

“And Terry’s done it. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. That’s the truth.” Her voice cracked. “He called me last night from a payphone. Said he was sorry, said he should have known better, said something was wrong.” She looked up at Marcus with wet eyes. “I asked him what was wrong, and he said—” She stopped, trying to hold back a sob. “He said the man knew too much about him. More than any client should. Said he felt like he was the one being watched.”

Marcus said nothing for a long moment. Somewhere down the street, a car backfired, and he tensed by instinct.

“If Terry contacts you again,” he said, pulling a card from his jacket, “tell him to call this number. And tell him to stay off the cameras.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means whoever hired him might not want loose ends.” Marcus turned to leave, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Does Terry have his own protection?”

“Protection?” The sister laughed bitterly. “Terry can barely afford rent. His protection is a camera and the hope that no one cares enough to hurt him.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Tell him to stay with friends. People he trusts. And tell him not to trust anyone new.”

---

The safe house was quiet when Marcus returned. Too quiet. Every light was supposed to be on—that was one of his rules, a simple one that Evelyn had grumbled about but followed. The ground floor sat dark, and the only illumination came from a single lamp upstairs in the bedroom.

Marcus moved through the darkened hallway with practiced silence, his hand finding the grip of his concealed weapon out of trained habit. He checked the kitchen, the living room, the side office that had become Evelyn’s de facto study. Empty.

He took the stairs two at a time, his heartbeat steady and controlled. The bedroom door was ajar. Through the gap, he could see Evelyn sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her audition clothes, staring at the brass compass her father had given her.

“You didn’t call,” she said without looking up. “You said you’d call when you found something.”

“I found something.” Marcus pushed the door fully open but stayed in the frame. “The photographer is a man named Terry Voss. He has a history of stalking women in the public eye. And he says he was hired.”

Evelyn’s head snapped up. “Hired? By who?”

“He won’t say. But he described the client as having a military background.” Marcus watched her expression carefully. “That changes things. If Voss was hired, then whoever’s watching you isn’t just an obsessive fan. It’s someone with resources. Someone who can hire labour.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Evelyn’s voice was thin. “I’m a actress. A reclusive one. Who would spend money to stalk me?”

“Someone with a purpose.” Marcus took a step into the room. “The photograph from your rooftop. The man watching your childhood home. The timing of your audition. Whoever this is, they’re organized. They have funding. And they know how to move without being seen.”

Evelyn wrapped her fingers around the compass until her knuckles turned white. “You’re not telling me something. You’ve been holding back since the beginning.”

Marcus met her gaze. It would be easy to placate her, to keep the Hendricks connection secret a little longer until he understood it better. But Patel’s face flashed in his mind—a professional acknowledging professional threat.

“There’s a man I served with named Patrick Hendricks,” he said slowly. “He went missing recently. When his flat was searched, the police found a photograph of you. Surveillance quality. Taken from a rooftop.”

Evelyn’s breath caught. “Wait. The rooftop picture you showed me—the one from Camden?”

“No.” Marcus shook his head. “A different one. Taken from your current neighbourhood.” He watched the blood drain from her face. “My former unit has a connection to this. I don’t know what it is yet. But I’m going to find out.”

“And you just decided to tell me now?”

“I decided to tell you when I understood what I was dealing with.” Marcus took another step closer. “I understand enough now to know this is bigger than a fan with a camera. And I make you a promise, Evelyn—whatever this is, I’ll end it. But you have to trust me.”

Evelyn looked down at the compass in her hands, her father’s gift, a relic from a childhood that had been safe. When she looked back up, there was something new in her eyes—not fear, but calculation.

“That goes both ways, Marcus,” she said quietly. “If we’re going to face this together, I need the truth from you. All of it. From now on.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of secrets still unspoken.