Doctor Gordon Cordell pulled up in front of the apartment block and marvelled at the speed of his change in fortunes.

There was nothing about his life that hadn’t altered in the six weeks since the investigation into the death of Sadie Winters at his old school, Heathcrest Academy. Every aspect of the elite facility for the privileged and wealthy children of the Black Country had been investigated. That same investigation had uncovered the fact he’d performed an illegal abortion on Sadie’s sixteen-year-old sister.

Not that he’d had a choice. When presented to him by her father, at least three weeks over the twenty-four-week legal limit, he had foregone the mandatory agreement of another doctor to satisfy the Abortion Act requirements and performed the termination anyway.

Thank God he had kept no records of the procedure and what was left of the Winters family weren’t shouting about it from the rooftops.

But that bitch detective and her team from West Midlands Police had tried their hardest to bring charges against him. And had failed.

The secret society of the Spades had come together and protected him. He had been grateful for the day when he was eleven years old and had been invited to join one of the four secret societies that existed at Heathcrest. He had relished the prestige of being a chosen one and had enjoyed all the benefits and connections of the brotherhood that continued beyond school. Once a Spade, always a Spade. And as expected his fellow Spades in high places had come forward and shielded him. Until the danger had passed.

And then they’d sent him the card.

The satisfied sigh of relief that he was untouchable had been silenced when he’d opened the envelope to find a ripped playing card. The nine of spades had been torn into bits and sent to him. No note. No explanation. Not that he’d needed one. He’d understood the message loud and clear.

The Spades had protected him for one reason only: they hadn’t wanted the police to destroy him because they had wanted to do it themselves.

Within forty-eight hours of opening the envelope he had been fired from his job as head surgeon at the private Oakland Hospital in Stourport-on-Severn. His brand new Lexus had been collected the same day, and his wife had thrown him out two days later when she’d learned why he had lost his job. The Spades were not upset because he’d performed the illegal abortion. They were upset because he’d been caught.

Within a week of expulsion he had been employed by Dudley Health Authority who were pleased to have him on board.

As well they should be, he reasoned. He had been educated at the best schools in the country and his record was impeccable. His official record, of course.

While not even close to the high six-figure sum he’d commanded at Oakland, the salary afforded him the opportunity of paying the mortgage on the home occupied by his wife with enough left over for rent on the one-bedroom apartment in Dudley and the nine-year-old Vauxhall he now drove.

It was all temporary. He knew that. This was his penance for being found out. This was his punishment for the police having got too close and bringing the whiff of scandal to a secret society that was steeped in tradition. But his fortunes would change in good time. Soon there would be a Spade that wanted his help. There would be some Lord or member of the cabinet with a careless teenage daughter who had a problem that needed taking care of by someone who could keep their mouth shut.

And that was when they’d bring him back. His old job would suddenly be available again. His Lexus would appear on the drive of his five bed, four bath barn conversion in Hartlebury, and his wife would welcome him home. His home once more.

But for now he would perform routine surgeries on the dregs of humanity for the NHS for a pittance of what he was worth.

‘Oh Doctor…’

‘Not now, Mrs Wilkins,’ he snapped, passing by the front door of flat 1A as the elderly woman peered out.

Ever since he’d foolishly mentioned that he was a doctor she had assaulted him with an ever-changing list of symptoms almost on a daily basis.

‘But, I just—’

‘Sorry, can’t stop,’ he said, reaching the first flight of stairs. He could still hear her protests but he wasn’t going back. He was just glad she didn’t have access to the internet. She’d have found one life-threatening disease after another.

He mounted the two flights of stairs while adjusting his breathing. His bulk didn’t take well to the absence of a lift, but in a month, he had shaved over sixteen pounds from his twenty-two stone weight. And although he didn’t wish to prolong his excommunication from his real life for longer than necessary, he secretly hoped he could shift another stone before returning home. His wife, Lilith, had tried dozens of diets, without success, and he had constantly told her less food and more exercise was the only way. He enjoyed a certain smugness and anticipated the ‘I told you so speech’ with relish.

These stairs, and not having his meals readily cooked for him, were working a treat.

He ignored the laboured breathing, white stars behind his eyes and the sweat on his forehead as he opened the door to his temporary home. It was a flat he’d kept for some years but only for a night here and there.

He stepped straight into the lounge which he swore got smaller each day.

An archway led to a boxy kitchen with no window and too many wall cupboards.

A door led to the bedroom which then led to the shower room behind.

It was still the stark empty box it had been the day he’d taken the keys.

He walked straight through to the bedroom loosening his tie as he went. After the first few days, Lilith had allowed him to return for a suitcase of clothes. She’d told him to take them all but to touch nothing else.

He smirked. She hadn’t noticed him swipe the bedside photograph of his two boys, Saul, already a surgeon and Luke in medical school. Small triumph, but a triumph all the same.

He reached into the bottom of his case to take out the photo, as he always did.

Placing it beside his bed admitted a permanence about his current situation that he was not prepared to acknowledge.

His pudgy fingers met with the silk lining of the case.

He frowned as he moved aside his spare pair of shoes and two pairs of socks.

He felt nothing but more silk and the securing strap.

He looked around the room even though he knew he had not removed it from its safe place in the suitcase.

‘Where the hell?…’

His words were cut off as a blinding pain shot through his head.

He fell forward as the sound of shattering glass reverberated in his ear.

Stars darted in front of his eyes as the nausea rose in his stomach. His consciousness threatened to desert him. He swallowed the saliva in his mouth to ward off the sickness.

He blinked rapidly hoping to outrun the descending darkness.

‘Hello, Doctor Cordell,’ said a smooth, calm voice behind him.

He fought off the nausea to turn and view his attacker.

The voice was not familiar, but as he turned, he realised that the face was. It was a face he had seen before but he couldn’t recall where.

‘What the—’

‘Shut up, Doctor Cordell,’ said his attacker cutting him off.

‘Lovely boys you have,’ Cordell heard, as he tried to blink his wavering vision back to normal.

Only then did he realise he’d been struck with the photo. The picture of his wonderful sons.

The photo was thrust into his face.

‘The time has come for you, Doctor Cordell. It’s time for you to make a choice.’