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Helen leaned on a bollard, tugging a cigarette from the packet, whilst casting a discreet glance back at the money transfer shop.

The establishment she’d just left was the fourth on her list and, with four more local outlets under Turkish management to try, she was keen to press on, but something she’d spotted inside the shop gave her pause.

As shen had departed, empty-handed and frustrated, she’d glimpsed a line of women queuing to make a transfer.

They were all young, hailing perhaps from Turkey or the Middle East, but it was not their look that stood out to Helen so much as their demeanour.

The line of women looked cowed, defeated, even scared.

The presence of two shaven-headed men, who seemed to have no interest in making a transaction, standing close by only served to pique her curiosity further.

Aware that her lingering presence outside might excite suspicion, she’d feigned a lengthy phone call, before ringing off and pulling up Google Maps, as if searching for some new and unfamiliar destination.

Having concluded this dumb show, she’d resorted to her favourite hobby – smoking.

But as she turned away from the shop now, sheltering her flickering lighter from the wind, she was startled by a noise behind her.

A harsh, barking voice corralling others to move.

Glancing over her shoulder, Helen was not surprised to see one of the burly men chivvying the line of women out of the shop.

‘Come on, let’s go …’ the impatient thug urged, silently counting the women out as they passed by.

His companions said nothing in response, mutely obeying his command as they filed past her and away down the street.

They seemed completely in his thrall, barely daring to communicate with each other, let alone respond to him.

Curious, Helen looked closely at the man, but he didn’t seem familiar, being markedly taller than the two thugs she’d fought off the other night.

Still, his manner, his total authority intrigued her.

What sort of hold did this man have over these women? Why did they all look so scared?

The women continued to ghost past her as if she wasn’t there.

Helen scrutinized them closely, trying to engage them, but they ignored her, moving swiftly on, heads down, eyes forward.

Desperate to know what their plight was, Helen wanted to reach out and grab one of them, ask her what was happening, but she resisted, the memory of her recent confrontation fresh, her wounds still raw.

Fate now took the matter out of her hands, however, one of the women tripping on the pavement, lurching towards Helen.

Helen reacted instinctively, dropping her cigarette lighter and opening her arms to receive the falling woman.

The two collided heavily, but Helen had braced herself and soon had the striking, dark-haired woman on her feet once more.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry …’ the embarrassed woman apologized, staring intently at her.

Helen was about to respond, putting the woman at ease, but the words died in her mouth, as she clocked the young woman’s facial tattoo, a simple Deq moon delicately inked on her chin.

Surprised, Helen now felt the woman shove something into her hand, before disengaging and falling back into line without a word.

The woman hurried off, her minder close behind, the latter shooting an aggressive, angry look at Helen as he followed his charge down the road.

Helen let them go, turning away and crouching down as if to pick up her lighter.

Instead, she opened her hand to find a scrunched-up piece of paper.

Intrigued, she unfolded it to discover it was one of the transfer forms from the shop.

Few of the required details had been filled out, however.

Instead, two words in block capitals had been scrawled on the battered piece of paper in black ink:

HELP ME.

Alarmed, Helen spun on her heel, just in time to see the cowed snake of workers leave the tatty street, disappearing down an adjacent alleyway.

Retrieving her lighter, Helen jogged down the street, treading quietly but purposefully, until she reached the mouth of the alley.

Pausing now, she peered round the brickwork, catching her breath as she saw the women being loaded into a scruffy white transit van.

They climbed in without protest, then the tall minder slammed the door shut, locking it from the outside, before casting a wary look back down the alleyway.

Helen remained stock-still, praying that he wouldn’t see her.

For a moment, he hesitated, then moved off, heading away to the passenger door.

As he did so, the engine sparked into life, Helen’s heart leaping into her mouth as she realized that only the right brake light was working.

Her instinct had been right then. This was the same outfit. This was the same van.

Breathless, excited, Helen sprinted back to her Kawasaki, leaping on it and firing up the ignition in one fluid motion.

Then she was off, roaring to the top of the street and swinging sharply right, heading fast to where she knew the alleyway opened out at the other end.

Sure enough, as she reached the next junction, she saw the van pulling away and moving fast down the road.

Helen followed suit, keeping a safe and sensible distance behind her quarry, her eyes glued to the battered van.

They had escaped her once. They would not do so again.