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How well Leyla Rashidi had fooled them all, keeping her operation, her success, her very existence totally under wraps.

She was a devious criminal who for years had operated in the shadows, presenting to the outside world as Harika Guli, loving mother and protector of her community, whilst in reality operating a sophisticated and successful trafficking operation.

Helen’s mind was still reeling from all that Viyan had told her, marvelling at the audacity, duplicity and cruelty of this mysterious woman.

She was obviously greedy, ruthless and sadistic, delighting in tormenting her charges when they behaved, eliminating them in the vilest way possible when they didn’t.

Helen had been devastated to learn of Selima’s terrible end, her fellow worker’s fractured description of her agonized screaming utterly sickening.

It was yet another death on Helen’s conscience, the very last thing she needed today.

Would Viyan perish in the same agonizing way?

If so, would Helen be able to live with herself?

It was she who’d asked ‘Harika’ to come to Southampton Central to help translate for Viyan.

It was she who’d unwittingly given away Viyan’s hiding place at the refuge, handing the young mother over to her captors on a plate.

Helen raged against herself for her stupidity, yet in her heart of hearts she knew it was Leyla Rashidi who was to blame, the pitiless gangmaster to whom killing was as natural as breathing.

How convincing she’d seemed when Helen had been quizzing her only a few days ago, concerned, committed and eager to help.

At the time, Helen had no doubts as to her sincerity, nor she assumed did her fellow volunteers, who appeared to hang on her every word.

Loath though she was to admit it, Leyla’s diabolical scheme had a touch of genius to it, using her charitable work in the UK to justify numerous trips to the remote villages, slums and, on occasion, disaster zones of Turkey.

No one, not Interpol, not the UK police, nor the refugee charities, would have any cause to question her activities or motives, giving her total freedom to recruit desperate new migrants.

With that kind expression, those big brown eyes, that winning smile, who wouldn’t be convinced?

Preying on fellow Kurds, exploiting their difficult situation for her own gain, she’d ensured a steady supply of illegal workers, topping up the numbers with other refugees from central Asia who’d managed to make it to the asylum centre in Rotterdam.

Was that organization in on it too? Or were they innocent dupes? Time would tell.

Time, however, was the one commodity Helen didn’t have.

Cranking up her speed, she raced on down the deserted country lanes.

Her satnav was leading her ever deeper into the unknown, indicating that she should turn right onto a dirt track which led away into woodland.

Skidding onto it, Helen bumped down the rutted path, each impact shooting right through her weakened body.

Despite this, she was heedless of caution, determined to locate the camp, taking the next bend as fast as she could, before suddenly coming to an abrupt halt, sending up a cloud of dust. Her prize was just a hundred feet in front of her, access barred by a pair of tall, metal gates.

This then was Dearham Farm, surrounded on all sides by a chain-link fence which was topped with razor wire.

Killing the ignition, Helen dismounted swiftly, tugging off her helmet and wheeling her Kawasaki off the road.

Leaving her bike concealed, Helen crept back to the roadside.

As she did so, the towering metal gates suddenly opened.

Intrigued, she hung back, wondering what this sudden movement might mean.

The sharp toot of a horn explained all, an articulated lorry leaving the farm and heading away fast down the dirt track.

Surprised, Helen stepped back into the shadows, watching with interest as the Dutch lorry thundered past.

A smile spread across her face as she watched it go, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Fired up, Helen pulled her phone from her pocket, then quickly dialled Charlie’s number.