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Helen roared through the city streets, enjoying the buffeting winds that assaulted her body and cleared her mind.

Last night, she had been in a strange place, her sleep disrupted by nagging fears and vivid nightmares, but she’d risen this morning determined to be positive and purposeful.

Despite all that life had thrown at her, the many cruelties, injuries and indignities she’d endured, she’d always found a way to get back on her feet and rejoin the battle.

Today would be no different. Today she would make a difference.

Swinging left onto Marsham Street, she reduced her speed, before bringing her Kawasaki to an abrupt halt at the junction with Balfour Road.

Killing the engine, she dismounted, parking up in a bay littered with electric scooters, which lay on their sides like so many fallen dominoes.

Shaking her head, Helen stepped over them, annoyed that the world had grown so careless and selfish, even as a discarded burger wrapper danced past, blown down the street by the gusting wind.

Pulling off her helmet, Helen scanned the quiet street, her eyes fixing on the down-at-heel money exchange outlet opposite.

This was her first port of call today, one of many such establishments she intended to visit.

Her plan was simple. It would be a laborious and probably fruitless task to engage with local refugee charities or action groups committed to tackling human trafficking.

They had few resources, she had no right to demand their assistance, and it was unlikely they would be able to shed much light on the army of illegal, unseen workers who permeated every sector of society.

Prostitution, domestic work, car washes, nail bars, hospitality, industrial cleaning – there was no end to the number of different roles these poor souls performed, so trying to seek out Selima by trawling the mean streets of Southampton would be a hopeless task.

There was, however, another potential route to seeking her out.

Some of the desperate workers who came to the UK illegally were kept in conditions of absolute slavery, with no pay, no freedom, no agency at all.

The majority, however, were given some form of remuneration, however meagre and unfair that pittance might be.

This was not done out of kindness, it was purely a business decision.

If those who journeyed to Europe with the help of the gangs were able to send money home, then this would encourage others to follow, mistakenly assuming that things had worked out well for the pioneers who went before.

A few pounds wired from Southampton to Turkey, Syria or Afghanistan might make a huge difference to those left behind in war zones or beset by natural disasters.

During her many years spent pounding the streets of Southampton, Helen had visited dozens of the small, independent money transfer outlets that littered the city.

Visiting them all would take several days, so she had decided to prioritize those outlets that had Turkish owners or strong links to that part of central Asia.

This list was much smaller and Money Transfer Fast was first up.

As Helen stepped inside, the elderly owner looked up, his expression shifting from hope to hostility as she approached the glass. Clearly he recognized her and, judging from his reaction, was not well-disposed towards the former detective inspector.

‘Morning, Emre. I trust you’re keeping well?’

‘Fine. And you? Enjoying your career break?’

‘Absolutely. Should have done it years ago.’

Helen beamed at the seventy-year-old, determined not to react to his jibe.

‘I’m pleased for you, but if you’ve come looking for a job, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. Business is not what it was, as you can see …’

He gestured dolefully to his empty establishment, but his eyes twinkled with mischief.

‘You’re alright,’ Helen replied, maintaining her smile. ‘I’m keeping my head above the water for now, but I do need your help with something.’

‘Helen Grace asking for my help? Well, that is a first …’

‘I’m looking for someone, a young Kurdish woman called Selima. She’s new to the country, possibly brought here illegally, and she needs our help.’

Emre looked puzzled, but not hostile, his loyalty to his country and community as strong as ever, despite his many years’ residence in Southampton. Seizing on this, Helen described the missing woman, focusing on her distinctive tattoos, and underlining the danger she was in.

‘And why are you looking for her?’ her companion replied, having digested the details.

‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Helen replied briskly. ‘I think she’s being held against her will, that she’s being subjected to violence and intimidation.’

‘But why you ? You are not a police officer anymore.’

‘Should that make a difference? I saw what I saw.’

‘It makes all the difference,’ the proprietor said coolly. ‘How do I know your interest in this poor woman is genuine? That you mean well?’

‘Oh, come off it, Emre …’

‘I feel for this woman, of course I do, if she’s in the hands of thugs and thieves. I haven’t seen her, but if I did, you can be sure I would do something to help her. But I would not contact you, Helen Grace. I would dial 999.’

It was as plain a push back as you could wish to see, revenge perhaps for a past clash in which Helen had come away the victor.

‘You just make sure you do,’ she replied, her voice laced with steel.

There was nothing for her here, apart from further obstruction and humiliation, so thanking the owner for his time, Helen took her leave, keen to press on to the next address on her list. Marching back to her bike, she was suddenly catapulted back in time, to her very first case as a WPC.

A fatal road traffic accident had led to her discovery of an illegal trafficking ring, young men enslaved on a local Hampshire farm, forced to work in disgusting conditions without remuneration just to put cut-price turkeys on people’s plates at Christmas.

Progress had been hard, as no one believed that a lowly, female traffic officer could have uncovered such a significant and far-reaching crime, but at least Helen had had her uniform back then, her warrant card, to command respect and compel people to play ball.

Now she had nothing but her determination to set against those who’d take great delight in refusing to help.

It was going to be an uphill battle, a potentially futile crusade, but she was determined to see it through.

She would not be weak today.