Chapter Eleven
Sins of the past.
The narrow road in Islington was no upmarket location. I glanced at the address on my phone, then up at the area around me. Cramped terraced townhouses with stained brickwork and shabby tiled roofs missing a few slates, lined either side. The windows on too many buildings were boarded up, and somewhere, out of sight, a dog barked at the inky night sky only to be answered by another dog. A bottle smashed against concrete and someone shouted at the pooches. A kid, perhaps a young man, skinny with dark eyes, rode by on a BMX bike wearing a hoodie and stared at me suspiciously before disappearing down an alleyway.
The neighborhood wasn’t exactly desirable, which is why, when I cruised along in the Range Rover—a car worth more than most of the houses, my head
