‘One of the most exciting, original thriller writers out there. I never miss one of his books.’
Simon Kernick, author of We Can See You
‘A compelling, dark read that gets you thinking.’
Sun
‘A shock on every other page.’
Wall Street Journal
‘An excellent psychological thriller. Twisty, moving, and chilling.’
Sarah Pinborough, bestselling author of Behind Her Eyes
‘Marrs excels at thrilling readers by creating a real sense of tension and delivering a believable, harsh criticism of modern society through this dark and entertaining story.’
LA Times
‘Marrs is brilliant at twists and for the addicts of adrenaline-fuelled twisty rides, this book really delivers the goods. It’s a real joy to read something totally original, smart, and thought-provoking.’
Peter James, international bestselling author of Dead If You Don’t
‘Dark and disturbing.’
Crime Monthly
‘Another savagely clever near-future thriller. Provocative, terrifying and compulsive.’
Cara Hunter, Sunday Times bestselling author of Close to Home
‘It’s a pitch-perfect psychological thriller, with a captivating power play at its heart. I don’t recall reading a novel that so expertly toyed with my sympathies. Great stuff!’
Simon Lelic, bestselling author of The House and The Liar’s Room
‘Totally absorbing, creepy, intense and utterly compelling. I loved it.’
Mel Sherratt, bestselling author of the DS Grace Allendale series and The Girls Next Door
‘If you have something really important, write it out and have it delivered by courier, the oldfashioned way … because I’ll tell you what: no computer is safe.’
Donald Trump
‘If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.’
George Orwell
PROLOGUE
He grimaced and pinched his nostrils as he made his way up the dimly lit staircase towards a set of double doors.
The stale-smelling offices Lee Dalgleish was about to enter were located close to the banks of London’s river Thames and a stone’s throw away from the former Battersea Power Station. The heatwave was making the odour of stagnant water and damp crawling up the walls particularly putrid.
Two empty desks and a chair with a broken spine were the only pieces of furniture to be housed in this section of the building, alongside a bank of empty telephone sockets stretching the length of the floor and two broken television screens hanging lopsided from a wall. There was no indication to the untrained eye what else might be hidden under this roof.
‘Much of the government’s most important work isn’t carried out within the walls of Westminster or Downing Street,’ he had been informed the morning of his orientation, months earlier. ‘It’s in places like this. It’s all about hiding in plain sight.’
Dalgleish handed his canvas shoulder bag, mobile phone, wallet, tablet and coat to one of three security operatives before stepping through the full-body scanner. He had passed four other guards earlier, located at the entrance. And like the ones before him now, they too were armed.
Being scanned always gave him the jitters. It made no sense as he went through the same routine for every shift and he had done nothing that contravened the many rules governing him. He behaved in the same manner each time he approached the airport ticket desk or NOTHING TO DECLARE lane at Heathrow – like a man burdened by guilt. He opened his mouth as an electronic saliva reader glided across his tongue before a green light flashed.
‘You’re all clear,’ said the guard without a smile. She was a new face he didn’t recognise. Her delicate features, large, blue eyes and long lashes contradicted the muscular frame that rippled under her white shirt and body armour.
‘Thank you,’ he muttered, and quickly looked away, realising he had held her gaze for too long. Strong women, either physically or mentally, scared and aroused him in equal measure.
He held his hands shoulder height and pressed his fingerprints against a screen, then spoke as both biometric devices scoured his eyes and his voice patterns. Then a final set of metal doors ahead slid open.
The recently rebranded global heating was to blame for another hot, sticky March morning which left Dalgleish feeling irritable. He had kept the windows of his second-floor flat wide open but the adjacent nightclub must have overhauled its sound system because the thump, thump, thump of electronic beats was all he could hear for much of the evening. He had eventually managed to fall asleep with balls of toilet paper stuffed into his ears but slept through the alarm on his phone. Each time he missed a gym session – which was rare – it made him recall the bullied, overweight teenager he once had been and a mild anxiety spread through him. One