Chapter One Embedded #2
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.
“DS Delaney’s secondary function is to act as potential temptation for Graham Radley.
His pattern is clear—he tests loyalty through manipulation and boundary violations.
Intelligence suggests he routinely coerces domestic staff into providing ‘exclusive services.’” Patel’s tone made the quotation marks cut like glass. “If you catch my drift.”
Warren didn’t soften it. “He’s a rapist.”
Patel’s eyes cut to him. “Legally, he’s a sexual coercer. Without a formal complaint or corroborated victim statement, we stick to what we can evidence. What matters is we know his behaviour, and we anticipate he’ll clock Naomi. That’s by design.”
Naomi crossed her legs. “Let’s hope he doesn’t prefer blondes.”
A few snorts trickled around the room. Warren didn’t laugh.
Patel advanced the slide. “To support cover integrity, DS Delaney and DS Beckford will cohabit in a semi-detached rental in West Worthbridge. Local legend is that Naomi Weeler runs a discreet concierge service. Her partner, Warren Bailey, is a supply PE teacher. Neighbours will know them as a couple recently relocated to town. That narrative provides cover for both interaction and surveillance.”
Warren frowned. “With respect, ma’am—me? House husband? Her safety net?”
Patel didn’t so much as glance his way. She clicked the remote, eyes still on the screen.
“For the benefit of anyone not familiar, this is Detective Sergeant Warren Beckford. Seconded from the Met’s Serious Crime Directorate.
Three long-term UC deployments in the past five years.
Most recently, with the Capgrove Crew in south London.
” She paced the pause with precision. “That operation uncovered a county line moving kids between Croydon and Slough. Intelligence Beckford gathered secured twelve arrests and dismantled the network’s logistics. But more importantly—”
Her silence landed like a gavel. Warren felt it in his bones.
“—he understands how victims vanish in plain sight. Even when they’re adults. Even when they believe it’s their choice.”
Warren held his face neutral, jaw clamped. Still raw. Too raw. The file in front of them all said enough. How he’d gone off-script. Some labelled it reckless, and others called it the only humane option. No one raised it. But it sat in the room with him.
Maybe Patel thought she was doing him a favour. Handing him a cover that looked clean. Supply teacher. Cohabiting partner. A role that wouldn’t leave blood on his hands.
Maybe he should’ve thanked her.
Patel clicked forward on the slides where the screen displayed a bird’s-eye view of Worthbridge Academy. Modern brickwork. A stretch of manicured sports fields. Rows of staff cars. A school trying to look both expensive and ordinary. Looked like a newbuild, too.
“You’ll report on-site tomorrow.” Patel spoke to Warren.
“Your cover identity is Warren Bailey. You’re a qualified fitness instructor stepping into temporary PE cover at Worthbridge Academy.
Lucky for us, you have a PGCE already from your very brief stint teaching before joining the Met. Contract starts with the new term.”
Warren tilted his head. “So I’m babysitting now?”
“You’re embedded. Eyes on the ground. Building trust. Spotting patterns.
Some of our strongest intel suggests Radley’s recruiters are shifting strategy.
Away from street-level grabs and towards what looks like institutional grooming.
Vulnerable but legal. Teenagers who won’t set off amber alerts when they vanish. ”
Warren frowned.
Patel tapped a file beside her. “They’re getting smarter.
Using school systems. Fake mentorships. And possibly teacher involvement.
Your post gives us access to safeguarding intel without raising flags.
Suspensions, unexplained bruises, attendance drops.
You’ll see what social workers can’t, or are turning a blind eye to, depending on how far Radley’s reach extends. ”
Warren nodded, but he gritted his teeth. The idea of a kid being hunted through his own timetable didn’t sit right. “Who’s my line manager?”
“The Head. You’ll meet her on Monday. At the staff training. Your alias has already cleared the DBS and HR systems through SEROCU. Don’t ask how. Call it a small miracle of bureaucracy. But that’s not your primary concern.”
“No?”
Patel advanced the slide. This time it wasn’t a glossy surveillance still. It was a mugshot. A real one.
“Secondary subject: Callum Reid. Released two weeks ago from HMP Winchester on early parole. Previous for coercive control, grooming, multiple GBHs. His ties to the Radley OCG run back more than a decade.”
Warren leaned forward, elbows to knees, locs brushing his collar. Finally, familiar ground. A predator he could circle, strip bare, and gut. “Sounds charming.”
Patel’s mouth ticked, not quite a smile. “He’s dangerous. Charismatic. Calculated.”
“Why’s he out?” Warren asked flatly.
“The board signed off his early release. Officially, overcrowding and good behaviour. Unofficially, we wanted to see who he’d run to. He’s our link to the Radley network, and now we’ve got eyes on him and on anyone he touches.”
Warren gave a short, derisive click of his tongue. “So he thinks he’s free, when really he’s bait. For us.”
“In a word. His release gives us leverage. He’s back in circulation. Which makes him a pressure point.”
She tapped the remote again. The projector merged to a grainy black-and-white CCTV still of the subject.
Callum Reid. He looked leaner than in his arrest photo.
Prison had stripped the weight off him but hardened the rest. Mixed race.
Face gaunt but sharp, as if carved out of bone and bad decisions.
A jagged scar ran from the edge of his left brow down onto his cheek, old but angry, and his hoodie, pulled low, cast a shadow over deep-set eyes, unreadable in the static image, but they were cold.
Hollow. And he clutched the strap of a battered prison-issue duffel, visible tattoos running over his knuckles, with his other shoved into the pouch of his hoodie.
His posture was loose, almost casual, but Warren could see the tension in his shoulders.
He’d been around men like him for years.
Men born of violence barely leashed. Even in still frame, he looked coiled. Watchful.
Predatory.
A man who’d walked out of a cage and knew exactly where he was going.
“Release footage,” Patel said. “Mid-morning, two weeks ago. No known associates collected him.”
Another click. A slow-motion sequence played across the wall: Reid boarding a southbound bus at the layby, hands shoved deep into his hoodie, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear.
“No verified parole address. The contact he gave on release was false. No tag. No supervision order. We wanted to see what he’d do and where he’d go with no one watching.”
The next clip showed a petrol station forecourt somewhere off the A36 near Southampton. Reid buying cigarettes. Hood up. Shoulders hunched. Glancing over his shoulder. Then another. A corner shop in Worthbridge, time-stamped three days later. This time, he wasn’t looking around.
He looked at home.
Worthbridge. A faded seaside place already softening into autumn: bunting swapped for plastic leaves in shop windows, cold brew replaced by spiced lattes, and school gates yawning open for the new term. Tourists thinning. Locals returning to routine. Streets quieter. Safer. Supposedly.
But Reid was here.
And Warren bet he hadn’t come for the sticks of rock or rejuvenating sea air.
“We believe he contacted someone when inside,” Patel said.
“Possibly linked to the Radley network’s southern arm.
He’s been keeping a low profile, but his pattern’s clear.
” She stepped forward, casting a partial silhouette across the projected image.
“We had him covered after release but he slipped the net when he went off-grid. Changed phones, no fixed address. Then he popped up near Worthbridge right where our Radley threads converge.”
“You want me to track him? Make friends?” Warren rubbed his palms together, hungry for it. “Haven’t had a good fake-out in a while. Love bringing down an arsehole with false loyalty.”
“You’re not tracking him, you’re watching the fallout. Who he goes to. Who protects him. That’s where the network lives.”
Warren frowned, folding his arms and chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“And we think it might be here.” Patel clicked the next slide.
This time it wasn’t CCTV. It was a staff photo.
School setting. A man sat at a desk, books stacked neatly to one side.
White. Slim. Curly brown hair dishevelled.
Black-rimmed glasses perched on a weary face.
Eyes both tired and defiant. And soft. Sweet.
Warren narrowed his eyes. “Subject?”
“This is where it gets… delicate.” Patel stepped closer to the projector, folding her arms as the next image slid into focus.
“Jude Ellison, thirty. History teacher at Worthbridge Academy. Moved to the town over two years ago. Originally from Leeds. No criminal record. No registered partner. Keeps to himself. Low profile. But we’ve flagged several anomalies. ”
Warren studied the face on screen. Clean-cut. Soft eyes. Too unassuming for a room like this. “Anomalies like what?”
“We believe Ellison and Callum Reid were involved in London.” Patel’s voice cooled. “Intimately.”
She didn’t need to spell it out.
“If Reid’s shown his face in Worthbridge now, it isn’t a coincidence. We think Ellison could be the reason. And if that link between them still exists, then it’s possible he’s been biding his time, building a life in the school, embedding himself in the community, waiting for Callum to come back.”
Warren scrutinised Jude’s photo.
None of this was what he’d expected.
Jude didn’t look like someone playing a long game.
He didn’t have the guarded eyes of a groomer or the sheen of a manipulator.
He looked… ordinary. Messy hair. Soft focus.
That weary smile teachers wore at the end of a long day.
One that said he’d explain a battle strategy or a political scandal with the same patience he used to hand out detentions.
Someone you’d nod to in the corridor and feel lighter for it. Kind.
And handsome enough to make you forget why you were there.
Warren blinked, dragging himself back into the room.
He’d learned a lot working undercover. Chief among them was that sentiment was a security breach.
He’d stripped his personal life for parts years ago, rebuilt himself out of discipline and distance.
Every feeling filed away, every impulse locked down.
Showing interest in a local wasn’t just reckless, it was an open wound.
A weakness waiting to be weaponised. One misstep and someone would trace that thread straight back to the Met, or worse, to SEROCU.
And he’d seen the type before. The ones who hid their guilt behind charm, wearing sincerity as if it were a mask.
Yet something in him shifted.
Quiet. Inconvenient.
A pull from somewhere he thought he’d buried for good.
Naomi leaned forward. “You think Ellison’s a thread in the Radley enquiry?”
“We don’t know,” Patel said evenly. “That’s where Warren comes in.
” Her gaze locked on him. “I’m giving you a second chance, DS Beckford.
Your remit may be secondary to Naomi’s, but it’s still critical.
You’re not there to monitor the students.
You’re there to get close to Jude Ellison.
Gain his trust, read him, and work out whether he’s an unwitting bystander…
or part of the problem. We know he was in the building with Alfie Carter during the fire. ”
Warren turned his gaze back to the image glowing on the screen. That face again. Open. Tired. A little out of place in a room full of teenagers but not threatening. Not calculated.
Not what he’d been trained to look for.
“You said… intimate?” He kept his tone level, though something worked sharp at his chest. “Are we talking lovers?”
Patel nodded. “That’s right.”
“So he’s gay?”
“Reid or Ellison?”
“Either.”
Patel shrugged. “Reid, we believe, is opportunistic. He’ll take what he can use. Ellison? Yes. Gay. Is that a problem?”
Warren sat back, letting the question settle. “No. Not a problem.” He couldn’t help glancing over at Naomi.
She looked away almost immediately.
Patel moved on. “This isn’t a sting. Not yet. This is intelligence-gathering. We do this right, we dismantle Radley’s network from the inside. We get Vivienne to crack. We track the grooming chain. We expose the funding route. And we find out exactly where Jude Ellison fits into all of it.”
Warren gave a nod. Slow. Intentional. Controlled.
But his gut twisted.
He’d gone undercover before. Deep cover. Messy work. Moral lines blurred to shit. He’d played addict, enforcer, lover, brother. All of it for the greater good. For something that made sense when the case file closed.
But this time?
This time the job came with a face he couldn’t stop looking at.
A name that felt heavier than the rest.
And a growing certainty in his gut that the hardest part of this assignment wouldn’t be lying to everyone else.
It would be lying to himself.