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Picking up a wad of notes, she brushed it across her cheek, loving the smooth feel of it on her skin, before bringing it to rest beneath her nostrils.

Slowly, Leyla breathed in the scent of it, closing her eyes in ecstasy.

It’s a myth that money has no aroma, especially with notes as well-used as these.

She loved to imagine the scores of previous owners, the notes thrust from hand to hand in shops, warehouses, car parks and shady alleyways, before ending up here, in her hands.

All these notes, all this wealth, was now hers to do with as she pleased.

As a child she’d had little money and certainly no power, which is why these piles of cash gave her such a charge.

Money meant freedom, meant security, meant control.

She’d worked hard every day of her life to earn it, but she now fought even harder to protect it.

Trafficking was a lucrative but dangerous business, other gangs constantly trying to force their way into the profitable Southampton labour market.

So far Leyla and her crew had repelled these clumsy incursions, but their triumph had come at a cost. Blood had been shed, bones broken, her own brother, Naz, losing an eye in the struggle for dominance.

The low-life responsible for that particular outrage was now six feet under, but it still rankled Leyla, a blatant attack on her flesh and blood, an affront to both her authority and prestige.

This was the price that had to be paid, however, and she knew for certain that she would sacrifice her own life, as well as those of her brothers and the hired muscle, rather than be bested by a rival gang.

She would never be second place. She would never be the victim. She was the ‘Boss’, pure and simple.

Pocketing the wad of notes, Leyla shut the trunk and slid the padlock back in place.

Pushing it back under her bed, she rose and crossed the room.

Through the window she could see Visser crossing to the farmhouse, whistling loudly.

She always looked forward to his visits, heralding not only a break from the monotony of camp life, but also the arrival of fresh merchandise.

On this particular occasion, his timing was impeccable.

After last night’s fun and games, they were one body down.

‘Is the lady of the house in?’ Visser called up, his pronounced Dutch accent making her smile.

‘In the bedroom,’ she sang back, giving the heavy trunk another kick to ensure that it was fully out of sight.

Retrieving the wad of notes from her pocket, she gave it one last, tender stroke.

It pained her to relinquish so much cash, but she never begrudged the Dutch trafficker his share.

Without his regular deliveries, her operation couldn’t function.

On cue, Visser appeared in the doorway. Crossing swiftly to him, she grasped his shoulders and kissed him three times in the traditional Dutch way.

Disengaging, her eye dropped to the tattoo on his forearm, a tribute to the mysterious ‘Suzanne’, whom she had often wondered about, but never mentioned.

Leyla’s relationship with Visser was cordial, but transactional.

She would never consider asking him about his background, just as he would never dare ask about hers.

Smiling warmly, she held out the notes to him, pleased to see the greedy expression in his eyes.

‘Your reward for a job well done. How was your crossing?’

‘Easy as pie,’ he purred, accepting the money.

‘Any issues with the authorities? The cargo? Anything I need to know?’

‘No, nothing,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s all as we agreed. Five Turkish, three Syrian, two Afghans and a couple of Albanians. They are all exhausted and hungry, but they are quiet. They’ll be ready to start work in the morning.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Leyla responded. ‘But you must be tired too, after your long journey,’ she continued, taking the Dutchman by the arm and leading him from the bedroom.

‘Viyan is downstairs, probably standing idle. Why don’t you get her to fix you something to eat?

Afterwards, she can make up a bed for you in the guest house. ’

Her companion nodded happily, a wolfish smile tugging at his lips.

‘Yes, I saw her on the way in. Pretty one, isn’t she?’

‘She certainly is, but you know the rules, Visser. We don’t touch the merchandise, do we?’

It was said with a smile, but Leyla’s steely gaze belied her bonhomie. She was in deadly earnest, happy to dispense with – or dispose of – anyone who didn’t understand the value of her cargo.

‘Of course, Leyla. I’m a perfect gentleman, as you know.’

It was said breezily, but Visser was backtracking fast, which pleased her.

The Dutchman was useful, but at the end of the day, he was just a mule, a cog in the machine.

Leyla knew he had money problems, she knew he had emotional entanglements, all of which could be used against him if necessary.

Avoiding her eye, the haulier departed, hurrying back down the stairs.

Turning, Leyla returned to the window. In the yard below, all was activity, her well-drilled crew marshalling the new arrivals towards the accommodation block.

Looking down on them from her first-floor vantage point, Leyla felt that familiar surge of power.

She was in control here. Everyone in this camp, from the workers, to their guards, to Visser himself, were in thrall to her success, her strength of character, her will to win.

And they would do well to remember that.