Copyright © 2024 Elliot Sweeney

The right of Elliot Sweeney be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by

WILDFIRE

an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

First published as an Ebook in Great Britain by

WILDFIRE

an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2024

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

Cover design by Dom Forbes

eISBN: 978 1 4722 9273 5

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

An Hachette UK Company

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.headline.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

About Elliot Sweeney

© Amy McCartney

Elliot Sweeney is a community psychiatric nurse from London. He was awarded the Fisher Scholarship to attend the Curtis Brown Creative novel writing course, and he’s also been supported by Spread the Word through their London Writers Awards Scheme. The Literary Consultancy has showcased him as a Spotlight Author, and he’s written for Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and Switchblade, amongst others.

Praise for The Next to Die:

‘A promising and hard-hitting debut’

Sunday Times

‘The Next to Die is a remarkably assured debut. It oozes the sour tang of authenticity, mingling psychiatry and crime with the mean streets of London. Kasper has the hallmark of the classic crime fiction protagonist, brutal but with an underlying compassion.’

Andrew Taylor, bestselling author of The American Boy and The Ashes of London

‘With pitch-perfect tone and quality to the writing, The Next to Die is a great new piece of London noir and a terrific debut.’

Amer Anwar, author of CWA Debut Dagger-wimming Brothers in Blood

‘A superb, heart-thumping thriller that sucks you in with its breathless action, The Next To Die is, without doubt, my favourite read of the year.’

Carol Wyer, bestselling author of the DI Kate Young and Detective Natalie Ward series

‘The Next to Die hooked me immediately with its formidable pace and fluid style. Kasper is a fascinatingly flawed but honourable character very much in the Chandler mould. A wonderfully assured debut, perfect for fans of dark and gritty thrillers.’

James Oswald, bestselling author of the Inspector McLean series

‘An outstanding read. Gritty and compelling with a cast of richly-drawn characters, this is an exceptional book. A collection of menacing bad guys cause a whole heap of trouble for Kasper, the damaged hero, and that ending - wow!’

D. S. Butler, bestselling author of the Detective Karen Hart series

‘A terrific debut featuring the dark and dangerous Dylan Kasper, a protagonist who seems to have stepped straight out of a Chandler novel into the present day. Brilliant modern noir.’

Trevor Wood, author of The Man on the Street

‘A stylish noir thriller with shades of Chandler that also manages to be bang up to date with big modern themes. This is a dark, gritty and compelling debut from a writer to watch.’

Lisa Gray, author of the Jessica Shaw series

‘Gritty, gripping and heartbreaking. Elliot Sweeney hasn’t just added a vital new dimension to the city thriller, he’s also created a brilliantly broken and utterly unique hero in Dylan Kasper. The Next to Die is authentic, compelling, and I couldn’t put it down.’

Tim Glister, author of the Richard Knox series

‘An addictive and emotional roller-coaster of a read. Fast-paced yet beautifully written, with quirky characters that draw you in, this is a outstanding first novel.’

Lisa Ballantyne, bestselling author of Once Upon a Lie

‘I read The Next To Die in one delicious feast, turning page after page, absorbing twist after twist to the very end. Elliot has a seemingly bottomless bag of characters you can’t help caring about - and a masterful way with the telling adjective.’

Her Honour Wendy Joseph QC, author of Unlawful Killings

‘Sweeney manages to break your heart, turn your stomach and lead you by the nose through a sickeningly believable tale of excruciating loss, unflinching violence and bloody redemption.’

Sam Tobin, author of the Manchester Underworld series

By Elliot Sweeney

THE NEXT TO DIE

A KILLING IN PARADISE

About the Book

A KILLING IN PARADISE

The exhilarating second instalment of the acclaimed Dylan Kasper series.

A young man has been murdered on the notorious Paradise estate in London. The police have their assumptions; out-of-work private investigator Dylan Kasper, more than familiar with the neighbourhood, has his own.

Kasper takes it upon himself to get to the bottom of the killing. He soon discovers the reason the boy was killed that the police will never find - or want to find. A highly incriminating piece of evidence tying an illegal production company to the government and police alike.

But this is just the beginning. Kasper has made a name for himself getting under the skin of the most brutal killers in the capital. When those dearest to Kasper are suddenly thrust into view, he will have to make an impossible choice. Will the inhabitants of Paradise feel safe at last, if the price must be paid in blood?

For my parents, Jane and Jim

Acknowledgements

Thanks to –

Jack Butler and Rosie Margesson of Wildfire Books; Gordon Wise at Curtis Brown; Russel McLean, freelance editor; Jo Malone, Scott Maynard, Sam Tobin, Rob Parker; and to my wife and son.

‘Always make the audience suffer as much as possible.’

– Alfred Hitchcock

Prologue

It was weeks later, when my wounds had healed, and the stories about Nate Willoughby were finally beginning to fade from public interest, that the nightmares came.

By then it was mid-March. Mornings were brighter, days longer, sweetened with the warming hints of spring; trees, naked weeks prior, were blossoming leaves and fruit buds. All seemed well.

Yet amidst life, the pall of death spread through my mind like a sarcoma. Each night I woke soaked with sweat, a tangle of air in my chest, the images pulsating like wounds.

My landlady, a retired psychiatrist, tells me that post-traumatic shock of this kind is not uncommon. As a former policeman I know first-hand how certain scenes encountered in the line of duty will always remain in the darker recesses of memory. The first attender to a gang rape or child murder will testify to this. And when my daughter’s suicide ended my career with the Met, I thought I’d experienced all life could throw.

But nothing could have prepared me for those two weeks at the start of this year. The things I saw, did, and what I learned I was capable of. Perhaps the nightmares are my mind’s way of making sense of it all. Or perhaps they are my punishment.

Rather than talk in abstracts and swerve details, I will stick to the facts and leave the opinions for others. In January, an evil came into our lives of the kind the professionals struggle to explain.

This is a story I perhaps shouldn’t share. But it’s one I’m struggling to contain.

Chapter 1

We were midway into the second round when the blood hit the ring floor.

It came from the nose of Patience Mensah, the fiery boxer I’d ventured out to see fight on this cold January evening. She’d stepped in too hard, caught a mean uppercut from her opponent, and then reeled back to the ropes. The crowd roared as Patience’s legs buckled and the other girl, blonde, ripped, trained at one of those pricey clubs in the City, saw the opening and piled in.

‘Damn,’ Mani said, wincing beside me from his chair. ‘That’s Patience’s lot, I’d say.’

Perhaps. But when she glanced back at the hecklers, her eyes still bore a spark of rage. Patience wasn’t throwing in the towel yet.

I drank some Export from the can, paid for by Mani. As were the tickets for tonight’s inter-borough bout, and pretty much everything else. He’d called that morning, asked me to join him. I’d seen Patience training at Savages, my local gym, and knew she’d be worth the jaunt. Hard of wallet and short on plans, I agreed.

Pretty fast, I realised Mani wasn’t himself; avoiding eye contact, acting cagey. He’d started smoking again too, never a good sign, for Mani’s consumption of cigarettes was generally a measure of his stress levels.

But I figured what the heck – he’d get to explaining whatever was on his mind when he was ready. Till then I was having a decent time watching these two girls beat the crap out of each other.

‘Thirty seconds left till the end of the round,’ Mani said.

‘That’s a lifetime in boxing,’ I said.

Sure enough, there was more drama in the ring. Again, Patience stepped in too hard, and another jab caught her, this time to the ribs, winding her. The crowd whipped up an octave. Her opponent dived in with the punches, and Patience raised her gloves, protecting her chin. The blows rocked her.

‘C’mon, girl,’ Mani said, his hands fists. ‘Dig deep.’

Ten seconds before the bell, Patience lunged forward for a clinch. Although bruised, she had something left in the can, but the other fighter was breathless. Patience snuck in two close suckers to her liver and was loading up more when the ref stepped in, drew them apart. But it was enough to send the girl to her corner with something to think about.

Mani looked over. ‘Patience don’t really live up to her name, huh, Kasper?’

‘Im-patient would be better,’ I said. ‘Then again, what’s in a name? I share mine with a friendly ghost.’

Mani grinned. ‘You enjoying yourself?’

‘Indeed I am,’ I said, looking around, taking in our setting.

The community hall, situated between Tottenham and Hackney, was two-thirds capacity, a hundred or so barrel-bellied geezers and track-suited kids from the flats. The floor was rough concrete, the ceiling corrugated metal, the seating nothing more than a load of foldup chairs rammed around the makeshift ring. Beers and Cokes were the sole refreshments, paid for with cash, no cards, definitely no tick. The smell of sweat, lager and flatulence reeked. Madison’s Square it was not.

‘So, how’s life?’ Mani said. ‘You still seeing that nurse from the dating app?’

I shook my head. ‘She dropped me out just before Christmas when she found out what I do for work. Or don’t do, I should say.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Afraid not. I mean, what’s not to like about an ex-plod turned out-of-work PI?’

‘Beats me,’ Mani said, grinning some more. ‘After you got those crooked cops sent away last year, I figured you’d be flooded with job offers, and pretty women.’

‘You’d think so, right? But the only work I’ve had in the last few weeks was photographing a cheating husband meeting his bit on the side in a McDonald’s car park. And my own love life’s about as exciting as that same McDonald’s car park.’

Mani chuckled, rolled his head back, and his necklace sparkled, a simple gold crucifix I’d never seen him without.

It was a tonic, joking about my current woes, but truth-be-told they were no laughing matter: like it or not, I needed to make a few lifestyle changes sharpish, or else I’d sink.

This wasn’t the time to berate myself though. Right then, all I really wanted was to let my hair down with a mate.

Although I’d known Mani – aka Emmanuel Meads, church-going father of three – for less than a year, it seemed longer, perhaps because of the circumstances in which we’d met. Last spring I’d investigated the death of a troubled young man who put himself under a train Mani was driving. When that case got messy and the bodies stacked up, Mani helped me dispose of a psychopathic cat killer’s corpse by feigning another suicide. I guess you could say I owed him one.

‘What do you reckon Pat’s chances are of pulling this fight back?’ he said.

‘Fair,’ I said. ‘Her opponent’s quicker, but your girl has guts. She just needs to keep that temper in check, wait for the opening, then—’ I brought my fists together.

Mani nodded. ‘She’s a good kid, but she’s had a tough life. I know her family. I tell you that?’

‘You hadn’t,’ I said, sensing we were close to what was playing on his mind.

A leggy blonde with curves in all the right places held up a Round Three placard, momentarily sidetracking me. Patience was first on her feet, smacking her gloves, her eyes fizzing.

Mani leaned over. ‘I told Patience ’bout you. That you’re a private investigator, looking for work. She’s keen to meet after the fight.’

The bell sounded. Patience piled in.

I looked at Mani. ‘Why’s she want to meet me?’

Before he could answer, the crowd erupted.

I glanced back at the ring. Patience had connected a southpaw to the other girl’s chin, enough to spin her one-eighty. Her mouth guard hit the floor, chattering like a castanet.

‘Whoa!’ Mani said, grabbing my shoulder. ‘You see that!’

It was a blinding punch that sent the girl floundering like a drunkard.

Patience wasn’t taking chances though. She charged in a right, stepped in to deliver a second.

No need. The girl’s legs went to rubber and the ref pulled the plug.

The crowd erupted.

Patience raised her gloves, punched air.

Mani was on his feet, clapping. His crucifix dallied around his neck, the silver glinting against the flashing cameras.

With the fights all finished and the hall emptying, Mani and I sank another beer at the makeshift bar and he filled me in.

Patience, it turned out, was the older sister of Kwame Mensah, a fourteen-year-old petty criminal who’d been murdered on Paradise Estate five nights prior.

‘Here,’ Mani said, passing me his phone, ‘read this.’

It was Tuesday’s Gazette. I remembered reading the article the morning it came out – this year’s first stabbing, but certainly not its last, the teenager killed on northeast London’s version of the Bronx. The piece featured a mug shot of Kwame, taken from a previous arrest. The malt-skinned boy with narrow cornrows and sharp cheekbones was a ringer for his sister.

‘Police are putting his death down as knife crime,’ Mani said. ‘Kids killing kids. Gang beefs. He’s another statistic.’

‘That’s what the article suggests,’ I said, handing back the phone.

‘I know Patience and Kwame from church. They got dragged there by their parents when they were little.’

‘Where’re the parents now?’

‘Their mum died from cancer eleven years back. They reckon she got it breathing asbestos in those rotten flats. And their dad, he got killed last year.’

‘Killed? What happened?’

‘Colin had mental problems. Stopped his meds, started shouting weird stuff around the estate, thinking the government was putting thoughts into his head. Police rocked up. When Colin refused to pipe down, one of them tasered him, the rest piled in. He died right there in front of Patience and Kwame. Heart failure brought on by asphyxiation. No one got charged, even disciplined. Maybe you read about it?’

I had, and remembered being disturbed, but not surprised, to read of another vulnerable man’s death caused by police over-restraint.

‘Anyway,’ Mani said, ‘after that, Patience and Kwame were two angry kids, alone on Paradise. I tried to help, popping round, offering what I could. But they were struggling. Specially Kwame. Patience had her boxing. But he was falling into crime.’

‘Police got a perp for his killing?’

Mani shook his head. ‘There’s a witness saw him get chased by a gang of boys with knives. Given he had a record, the Met’s ruled out alternatives. Gang crime. The case is open-shut.’

‘You think the police might be right on this one?’

‘What do you reckon?’

‘I reckon you wouldn’t have suggested me to Patience if you thought it was that straightforward.’

Mani drew his lips together. There was more.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Patience discovered something yesterday. It’s pretty messed up, man.’

‘What did she find?’

Mani swigged from his can. I noticed his hands had started trembling.

‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Be easier if you saw it for yourself.’

Patience Mensah was sitting on a bench at the far end of a steamy, sweaty, but otherwise empty changing room. She was clad in a silky black post-fight gown that had Pat the Bulldozer embroidered on the front. She didn’t stand as we came in. Just looked up, searing me with a Black and Decker stare.

‘Pat,’ Mani said, ‘what a fight, girl.’

She grunted.

‘This is the friend I was telling you ’bout.’ He gestured over towards me. ‘Name’s Dylan Kasper.’

We considered each other. She had small dark eyes, a stubby fighter’s nose, and cheekbones you could sharpen a pencil on. Five-eight, lean and as ripped as cable wire, her chest was flat, shoulders square, glutes thick and solid. Her left eyebrow was mousing a little, and her nostril was packed with gauze. Despite the war-wounds, she had a steely presence, striking, handsome, intimidating too, and not exuding the welcoming vibe I expect from a potential client.

‘Good to meet you,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ she replied.

I offered a hand. She took it. As handshakes go, it was a firm one.

‘I seen you training at Savages,’ she said, her voice, all street-edge and front.

‘And I’ve seen you too,’ I said. ‘You’ve been putting in the hours. Nice work tonight.’

‘Yeah,’ she repeated. ‘Mani tell you about my kid brother?’

‘He did. Sorry for your loss.’ Lines like this were about as much use as a cat-flap in a submarine, but you still had to say them. ‘I gather you wanted to talk?’

‘Me?’ Patience said, frowning.

Mani stepped in, said, ‘I thought you could tell Kasper what’s been going on.’ He looked between us keenly. ‘I reckon he can help you.’

The penny dropped then – Patience and I had been misled about each other. She hadn’t been keen to meet me; and I wasn’t made up to chat with her either. Mani, however, was gunning for us to speak. Why?

She kept up her stare. Finally, she said, ‘You reckon you can help then?’

‘Depends. What do you need help with?’

‘What you think? To find out what happened to Kwame.’

‘How about the police? You speak with them?’

‘Police are racist liars. They killed my father.’

‘Yeah, I heard. But there’s a few decent officers still.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I used to be one.’

She looked at Mani, kissed her teeth. ‘Why’d you bring a fed here, man?’

Mani gave an exasperated sound. ‘Give Kasper a chance, Pat. I can vouch for him. Besides, who else is there?’

She returned to me. ‘How come you left the police?’

I shrugged. ‘Oh, the hours, the crappy pay. Plus, I got bored of wearing a tit on my head.’

A flicker of a smile lit her face, but it faded fast, and the eyes stayed hard.

Right then, I was pretty sure the police were right about her brother’s killing, and it was nothing more than a beef turned ugly. Paradise was a cesspit of crime, notorious for tragedies that went unspoken, unresolved. It was a bleak reality, but a sign of the iniquitous times we were in.

I was tempted to say as much but held back, for I couldn’t ignore what was in front of me – a kid torn up with grief and desperate for answers about her brother’s death. I guessed I knew something about that. It was coming up to six years since my daughter died, aged fourteen too.

‘Why don’t you start from the beginning,’ I said. ‘Tell me what went down with Kwame.’

She shrugged. ‘After Dad died, things got tough. Me and Kwame, we didn’t have no money, no clue about life. Gas and electric bills hit the roof, the bills kept stacking up. Rent arrears, utilities, all that.’

‘What did you two do to make ends meet?’

‘My plan was to sack off the boxing, get a regular job, try to sort things out legit. But Kwame, he wanted me to keep on fighting. He reckoned I could go all the way.’ She looked at her fists. ‘So, he tried earning. My stupid brother became man of the house.’

‘How’d he earn?’

‘How you think? Thieving. Breaking an’ entering, snatching stuff outta people’s hands.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘These ends, mostly. Kwame never strayed too far from the nest. Just saw the opportunity, an’ took it, not thinking of no consequences.’

‘What stuff did he go for?’

‘Laptops, phones, anything electronic you can flog. He stole bare numbers. We didn’t make much money, but it was enough to keep us going.’ She paused. ‘Till Monday. When he got killed.’

‘OK. Talk me through Monday. What happened?’

‘Day before, he told me he was stopping the crime. I figured it was a new year’s resolution, some shit like that. But he said to me, “Sis, I’m onto something big. This thing will earn us a packet.” ’

‘Did he tell you what the thing was?’

‘Nah, he said it was a secret. It was better if I didn’t find out. He was acting all secretive. I just left him to it. I wish I’d paid more attention.’

‘Mani mentioned a witness who saw your brother getting chased?’

Patience kissed her teeth again. ‘Trust me, that story’s full of holes.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’m hoping you told this to the police? Even if you don’t trust them, this is still a live investigation.’

She hesitated, looked again at Mani.

‘Go on,’ Mani said, ‘show Kasper, Pat.’

Patience looked at the floor. Beneath the bench was a small Lonsdale bag, zipped up. I hadn’t noticed it until now. She pulled it out, placed it beside her on the bench.

‘If you see what’s in that,’ she said, ‘you can’t un-see it. Get me?’

When Mani said Patience had discovered something, I assumed it had been information, or a hunch. Not hard evidence.

I wondered if the bag contained drugs, maybe weapons. It wouldn’t be the first time a kid got killed for nicking off big leaguers. And if that was the case, it should all go straight to the authorities, no question.

‘What’s in there?’ I said.

Before opening the bag, Patience rose from the bench and walked to the door, bolting the top lock, the bottom one, checking we couldn’t be interrupted. Then she came back, unzipped it.

I looked at Mani. He’d started rubbing the crucifix around his neck.

Patience reached in, removed a small item wrapped in a sweat towel and placed it on the bench. Carefully, she pulled the towel away.

It wasn’t drugs or weapons, or anything like that.

It was a digital camcorder. Slick, handheld, not top end, but a fairly decent one from the looks of it.

‘I found this in Kwame’s drawer,’ she said, ‘along with this.’

She handed me a scrunched piece of paper. I flattened it, read the clumsy, heavily scrawled capitals:

HEY SIS

IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, DESTROY THIS THING.

LOVE U

KWAME

I handed her back the note, pointed at the camcorder. ‘But you didn’t destroy it.’

She shook her head.

‘It’s stolen?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it is.’

The changing room wasn’t steamy anymore. A draft was cutting through the air, and I felt a vague foreboding that came with it. If I’d paid attention to it, maybe I’d have made my excuses and left right then.

But I didn’t.

‘Go on,’ Mani said, ‘let Kasper see what’s recorded on that thing.’

I looked at him, her, and the camcorder again. ‘There’s a home movie on it?’

‘Yeah,’ she said.

‘Something to send to You’ve Been Framed, right?’

She shook her head. ‘I ain’t never watched no home movie like this. See what you think.’

She removed a laptop from the bag, booted it up, looked at Mani.

‘Kill the lights,’ she said.