Chapter Text
George Russell can’t help it – he always feels a little uneasy when faced with the relentless, overbearing presence of generational wealth. It’s a force of habit, if he’s honest – an old safeguard he’s developed after years of slipping unnoticed through the ranks of his filthily rich peers, never quite discovered as an imposter.
When he glances over at the passenger seat, where unassuming, quiet, pale Oscar Piastri sits – attempting, as usual, to make his presence as inconspicuous as possible, slipping into the shadows where the young Australian thrives – he finds the same frowning, unperturbed expression fixed on the sprawling Somerton estate, ancestral home of the Lord of Glastonbury, the esteemed Adam Norris.
“What do you reckon?” George asks, breaking the silence as he steers the black Mercedes – a company car from the Yard, nothing he could afford on his salary alone – through the ornate gates and up the broad drive leading directly to the steps of the massive manor.
“It’s very English,” Oscar says, sounding unimpressed. “And it could do with a paint job.”
George laughs despite himself. It’s not as if he disagrees; the manor’s façade is very much showing the test of time. “You’re so foreign to all of this. What you see here is absolutely desired. It’s patina – proof of age, and therefore of the perennity of the Norris lineage.”
Oscar throws him a brief glance. “You’re very informed on the whims of aristocracy. Hiding a peerage from me?”
Ha. He still moves effortlessly through circles he was never meant to belong to.
“No,” George says with a grin. “Just spent enough time around the residents of these very mansions.”
He kills the engine once he’s parked beside an offensively orange McLaren, its paint dulled by a layer of English countryside grime. Some things never change, it seems – his old friend’s taste in cars, or the same careless disregard that has always unsettled him.
George catches his young colleague staring at the McLaren and can’t help but smile.
“Yeah, right?” he says, following Oscar’s gaze. “Owning one of these would be life-changing. And that’s just one of, what, forty? I’ve never cared enough to listen when he went on about his collection.”
Oscar looks almost embarrassed to be caught – an unusual show of curiosity from someone who so rarely betrays interest in anything. Still, the three-hour drive to Somerset has at least achieved something: George has learned that Oscar Piastri probably has a thing for fast cars.
“It’s ugly,” Oscar declares. “And dirty.”
“Yeah, well. That’s a privilege to flaunt too, isn’t it?”
George opens the door, and Oscar follows suit. As soon as he steps out, George catches his reflection in the car window, adjusting his hair even though there’s nothing to fix – he makes sure of that every morning with a touch of gel. His suit is spotless, tailored to perfection. From his pocket he retrieves a pair of sunglasses; the sky above is overcast, but he’s always preferred to keep his eyes hidden.
When he rounds the car to head for the ascent toward the entrance, his young colleague falls into step beside him. They make an unlikely pair: George, looking as though he’s stepped out of a Harrods catalogue, and Oscar, in his jeans and black jacket, the very image of the data analyst he’s supposed to be.
Data analyst – that’s the polite term they use at the Yard. In truth, he’s a hacker, plain and simple. But a hacker who’s decided he’d rather work for the good guys – and that’s something George can very much appreciate.
“Let me do the talking once we’re inside,” George says as they climb the sandstone steps, flanked by a pair of very ugly gargoyles – tongues lolling, faces the picture of madness. He’s not even sure why he says it; Oscar never says anything unless directly addressed, and even then he tends to avoid eye contact.
So, true to form, Oscar doesn’t bother replying.
“I really hope he hasn’t called me all the way out here for a chat between old uni pals,” George muses. “It was hard enough convincing Superintendent Wolff to let us drive all the way to Glastonbury on nothing but a message from a friend. But honestly? In my experience, if a posho comes to you with a problem, you’d better listen. They never let anyone into their business unless they really have to.”
Oscar stays silent again – but George doesn’t mind. Maybe that’s part of why he likes working with him on the Thrax case. And not just because his Australian partner is brilliant at tracing the digital breadcrumbs that Thrax and his associates leave scattered across their dirty deals.
George finds the bell – a tarnished but undeniably fancy thing set into the whitewashed, polished door. When he presses it, he takes a step back and folds his hands neatly in front of him, striking that polite, deferential pose the aristos always appreciate. Beside him, Oscar rather ruins the tableau of genial professionalism by turning back toward the McLaren – still clearly taken with it.
A few seconds later, the door opens, and to George’s surprise, he finds himself face to face with the man of the house – or rather, his son, who will one day inherit that title along with everything else. He hadn’t expected Lando to greet them personally, though to be fair, Lando’s never been one for formalities.
His old friend – or more accurately, his once-friendly acquaintance – stands before him in a jade-green satin dressing gown, open enough to reveal a tanned torso and a chest kept in impeccable shape. His face has matured since George last saw him, but he’s still wickedly handsome, with that mischievous glint in his eyes that has always reminded George of Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“George Russell, you magnificent bastard,” Lando exclaims, a broad smile flashing across his lips. “You really kept your word and came to visit an old friend.”
He turns to Oscar, who regards him with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration – as if he can’t decide whether Lando is the most ridiculous person he’s ever seen or someone who somehow pulls off that peculiar strain of old-money eccentricity the rest of them could never hope to emulate. “And who are you?”
“That’s Oscar Piastri,” George supplies, knowing full well that Oscar prefers not to speak in front of strangers. “He’s a data analyst. We work together at Scotland Yard. He’s been assigned to the Thrax case, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have him along.”
Lando looks Oscar up and down, clearly unimpressed by his casual clothes. But George can’t help a flicker of affection for his colleague, who meets the scrutiny without flinching. They’re of one mind when it comes to the aristocracy – though George has long perfected the art of pretending to be their greatest admirer. It’s how he survived Eton, and later Balliol.
“Thrax,” Lando scoffs. “Is that really what you call him down at the Yard? God, he must love that.”
“Well,” George says, “I’d love to call him Verstappen too, but until we can establish a complete and legally airtight overlap between the two identities, it’s safer to keep them separate.”
“Oh, I can tell you, Verstappen is Thrax. No doubt about it.”
Lando looks royally put out – as if he can’t quite believe he’s being forced to deal with all this unpleasant outside nonsense so early in the morning, when he should by rights be nursing his hangover or indulging whatever unsavoury whims his old uni acquaintance has graduated to in the meantime, like doing lines of the back of a horse.
“Let’s talk about that inside,” he says at last, stepping aside to let them in.
George enters first, Oscar trailing quietly behind. The air inside the manor is faintly stale, the heavy curtains drawn across the tall windows and muting what little daylight manages to seep through. George removes his sunglasses, his eyes adjusting to the dimness as they pass the veiled statues that flank the hall and the shadowed entrances to the drawing and dining rooms.
Lando leads them deeper into the house, his robe swishing faintly with each step. George keeps his gaze away from the endless line of Norris ancestors staring down from their gilt frames, though Oscar catches his eye once, grimacing – and George knows they’re thinking the same thing.
They finally reach a room that’s less stuffy and dark – the windows are open, letting the warm September air drift through. It’s a lovely space, George has to admit: the wallpaper is tastefully pastel, and there are noticeably fewer Norrises glaring down from the walls.
Lando throws himself onto a chaise longue, his robe slipping further down his chest and revealing even more of his admittedly impressive physique.
George takes a seat at the other end of the table, where a newspaper lies beside an open book – Lando Norris can read? – and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette stubs. A teacup sits nearby, filled with something that’s definitely not tea. Lando sniffs it, winces, and sets it back down.
“I’d offer you something to drink,” he says, “but I’m afraid the maid’s gone out.”
“It’s fine,” George replies, jovially. “Don’t fret.”
Oscar stands behind him, arms folded, with absolutely no intention of sitting on any of the Victorian upholstery that exhales a cloud of dust every time someone moves. George has only known him for six months, but he can tell his data analyst would very much like to leave this haunted house already.
“Please,” George says, trying not to let impatience edge into his voice, “tell us what you wanted us to come down here for.”
Lando’s got to be handled carefully – he’s a good sport, but terribly sensitive, like a bougainvillea.
“You said it was about Thrax?”
“Well, kinda.” Lando sighs. “But in essence, this is a family matter.”
George does his best to keep the very forced smile from slipping off his face. “A family matter?”
He swears, if Lando’s dragged him all the way down here just to complain about some idiotic family squabble George couldn’t care less about, it’s going to be very hard not to lose it. He’s already gone out on a limb with Superintendent Wolff to get approval for this so-called “investigation” – chasing a personal tip that might amount to nothing – and if he returns empty-handed, that’s an entire day of work wasted. Worse, it’s one of Oscar’s days, too, and those are worth plenty. No one at the Yard can do what Oscar does.
“Yeah,” Lando sighs. “Verstappen – or Thrax, or whatever you want to call him – is my cousin.”
George blinks – instantly conceding that this revelation alone might justify the trip down here. He tries not to let his face betray his shock, but even the poker face he’s perfected over the years can’t quite conceal his surprise. When he glances at Oscar, even he looks mildly impressed – as if he hadn’t expected Lando Norris to be harbouring such a deliciously sordid family secret.
“Max Verstappen is your cousin?” George finally manages, while Lando lounges on his chaise longue like a Botticelli nymph. “Our favourite conman’s an aristocrat? Talk about Robin Hood.”
But Lando shakes his head. “No, he’s from my mother’s side – she’s a commoner. Belgian, too, like Max’s mother.” He clears his throat. “I actually have another cousin as well. His name’s Lance Stroll – he’s Canadian, he’s–”
“The heir to Aston Martin,” Oscar interjects, unexpectedly. Both George and Lando turn to look at him.
Lando grins, clearly delighted. “You know your cars, data boy.”
George takes a moment to collect himself. “Wait – so you, Max Verstappen, and Lance Stroll are actually cousins? How is that not common knowledge?”
“Well,” Lando says, waving a hand, “Lance and I don’t really get along. He’s a foul-mouthed, vulgar, nouveau-riche basement dweller who loves to fuck, take drugs, and drive fast cars.”
George resists the urge to point out that that’s precisely what Lando is – except his money is older.
“And neither Lance nor I have any interest in being connected to our hillbilly cousin who spends his time squatting in some London warehouse, building an army of petty thieves out of street kids and teaching them how to nick watches and wallets.”
“You’re very well informed about Verstappen’s whereabouts,” George notes.
Lando scoffs. “Yeah, Father’s keeping tabs on him. I suppose he didn’t expect to find that sort of… Dickensian tragedietta in his extended family when he married my mother.”
“Please explain this to me,” George says. “Your mother, Verstappen’s, and Stroll’s mothers were sisters?”
“Yes.” Lando waves a hand dismissively. “They grew up somewhere in the Flemish countryside. My mother barely talks about it – sordid, as far as I know. Flat, rainy, and depressing.”
“What’s the difference to here?” Oscar interjects.
George shoots him a warning look. Oscar usually saves his quiet snark for the debriefs in the car on the way back to headquarters.
But Lando looks delighted. “You’re Australian, aren’t you? I imagine the English countryside’s a bit too cultured for you. Don’t you reign over dirt and weed down under?”
“Don’t forget rocks, spiders and snakes.”
Another deadpan quip from Oscar Piastri – and a lazy, entertained smile from Lando Norris, one of the cockiest, most conceited men George has ever met. And he’s been to fucking Balliol. An odd pairing, those two – but then again, George knows next to nothing about Oscar. Maybe he likes conceited people.
“Could we stay on topic, please?” George is really starting to lose patience. Getting Lando to finish a story is like trying to conduct an orchestra of unmedicated children through Beethoven’s Ninth. It doesn’t help that his data analyst is running rogue – the same man who usually stands quietly in the background, listens, and later supplies George with everything he missed. And George misses very little.
“Yeah, sure,” Lando says. “Father’s not happy I’m even talking to you – but you’re a friend, and you were always the brightest one in our group. If anyone can figure this out, it’s you.”
George tries not to look too smug. Compliments from people like Lando are rare currency – he’d handed them out sparingly even back at university, and the two of them had barely shared any courses. George had been studying law before joining the Metropolitan Police’s graduate entry programme; Lando had taken classics, though George had never imagined he’d retained much from it – or earned a degree, for that matter.
Still, judging by the open copy of Milton lying between them on the table, it seems Lando had taken something from his studies after all.
“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound like a fairy tale,” Lando says, sitting up so he can look at them both. “So I’ll ask you to humour me. It’s part of the family lore – a little theatrical, perhaps – but if you’ve been trying to nail down my cousin for over four years now, you’ll appreciate any scrap of context I can give you that might explain the man.”
If George didn’t have a near-photographic memory, he’d be reaching for his notebook by now. Instead, he rests his hands on his knees and waits for Lando to finally meet him where he’s been for the past ten minutes.
“Imagine my Flemish grandfather as a sort of King Lear figure,” Lando begins. “Three daughters, each cunning in her own way – and all of them beautiful. He knew his daughters were far too big for the little Flemish hamlet they grew up in during the seventies. And he knew it was only a matter of time before they’d leave, heading out into the merry world.”
He pauses, his tone dipping into something almost reverent.
“Today, we’d call him a conspiracy theorist. Back then, he was just a contrarian – a man who thought for himself, and mistrusted everything that came from the outside. But the outside still came.”
Now George understands Lando’s preface. It does sound like a fairy tale – and Lando tells it that way too, his voice carrying that same inherited rhythm, as though he’s repeating the story exactly as it was once told to him.
“Lawrence Stroll was first. He came into our mothers’ little hamlet – I think he was just passing through, possibly looking for cheap real estate to turn into a hotel, or whatever it is he does. I really don’t keep tabs on him. Anyway, when he saw my aunt, Claire-Anne, he was instantly smitten. She was always the creative one – something she clearly passed on to her son, for better or worse. Supposedly she was singing under a tree or something equally pastoral. I don’t even know how much of this is my mother’s invention, but that’s how the story was told to me. He went straight up to her and asked if she wanted to live a life beyond her wildest imagination – travel the world, see everything, come with him to Canada.”
“She said yes, I imagine,” George interjects.
“She did.” Lando shrugs. “I mean, who wouldn’t? Our grandfather was really odd – and I don’t even think they had electricity. He’d read Tesla, you see, and thought it entirely plausible that power could be carried wirelessly. He was a total kook. So Aunt Claire left, but before Grandfather gave his blessing, he told her and Lawrence one thing: they had to return with their firstborn son and let Grandmother name him.”
“That’s not such a terrible condition,” George offers.
“That’s what Lawrence Stroll thought too – so he took it.” Lando sighs. “Next comes my father. He was actually chasing a lost Van Dyck painting. I don’t know how much I told you about him during uni, but you remember he’s an avid art collector, right?”
It’s possible George once knew something along those lines – but it’s hard enough keeping his old Balliol acquaintances straight, with their menageries of eccentric hobbies and inherited fixations. Making mental notes of their fathers’ obsessions is not something he’s ever had the headspace for. So he just nods and says, “Yeah. Rings a bell.”
“My father loves Flemish art. I think he’d give his left hand if the last thing he touched with it were a Rubens.” Lando rolls his eyes. “So him chasing a hypothetical lost Van Dyck he’d heard about during his studies, back to Flanders itself, was a very on-brand move for him. He never found the Van Dyck, but he did find my mother. And, as he always tells it, he thought she was the spitting image of Van Dyck’s Mary Magdalene. So, of course, he instantly fell in love and asked our grandfather for her hand.”
“And he gave it under the same condition?” George asks. What an odd family.
“Correct.” Lando nods. “Which leaves my other aunt, Sophie. Aunt Sophie was the last one stuck in that Flemish hamlet. The villagers half expected a third impossibly rich man to come through and whisk her away to some faraway kingdom – but nothing of the sort happened.”
“Did she stay with your grandparents?”
Lando shakes his head. “No. A Dutchman came instead. He was wild and violent, but as taken with Sophie as her sisters’ husbands had been with them. He had something about him – something intriguing, self-made, a little dangerous. He was a small-time racer, too, a real maverick. Not a lord or a billionaire like my father and uncle. And Aunt Sophie, who’d always been a tomboy and loved horseback riding, fell head over heels in love.”
“Verstappen’s dad,” George says, leaning forward a little. It feels utterly strange to hear something so private – so familial – about the ghost he’s been chasing for over two years now: ever since he was assigned the Thrax case, hearing whispers that the alias might belong to a Dutchman not even half a year older than him, who had settled in London but was too smart to ever be tied to anything illegal. That he’s known one cousin all along, and heard about the other – it feels completely unreal to George.
“Yes. And under the same condition, my grandfather let them go.” Lando looks over at him. “As you probably know, Max is the eldest of us – so he was born first, and Sophie and Jos Verstappen returned to the village. Our grandmother named the child Max – after Maximinus Thrax, the Roman knight who would go on to become emperor.”
George stares at him. “That’s a crystal-clear connection to Verstappen. If he’s named after Thrax, and the alias is Thrax too–”
“Yeah, but you can’t prove anything,” Lando cuts in. “Family lore doesn’t hold up in court. And if all the other evidence you have is as circumstantial, Max is never going to get pinned down.”
He shakes his head, returning to his retelling. “A year and a month later, Aunt Claire-Anne had her son. She and Lawrence returned to the village, and my grandmother named her second grandson after another knight – this time from fiction, which was just fitting, concerning Claire’s knack for spinning stories: Sir Lancelot of Arthur’s Round Table.”
“And then you were born.”
Lando nods. “And then, finally, I was born. Another year and a month later. My parents went back to the village with an uneasy feeling – especially my dad, who thought it was strange not to name his own child. But my grandma was a very sweet and very intense lady, and since both of my mother’s sisters had done the same, they went along. She named me after a knight too – a medieval one who fought in the army of Charlemagne – called Orlando.”
“Your real name is Orlando?”
It’s Oscar who speaks, to George’s surprise. He’d half expected his colleague to have slipped out of the room during this gothic fairy tale to snoop somewhere else, but Oscar is still there, listening.
“Yeah,” Lando says, looking at Oscar. “But I don’t tell anyone – and I punch people if they dare call me that. My father actually liked it, though. He always loved Ariosto’s epic poem Orlando Furioso, so he thought the name was fitting.”
George stays silent for a moment. “So you’re three cousins – all named after knights?”
Lando hums, reaching for the teacup of liquor he’d discarded earlier. He takes a sip and grimaces. “There were rumors in the village about my grandmother – that she’d been struck by lightning when she was young. People said it’s why my grandfather was afraid of electricity. They also said she was clairvoyant, which is why letting her name us was probably the stupidest idea our fathers ever agreed to.”
“But it’s just superstition, right?” George leans forward a little. It speaks to Lando’s talent for storytelling that he’s drawn in, but when he takes a mental step back, it’s still just a strange tale about a family with far too much money and not enough real problems.
“Technically. But there are… some things about us that line up a little too neatly with the knights we were named after.” He glances at George. “Take Max, for example. Do you know how he grew up?”
George looks over to Oscar, who meets his gaze. “Well – in the Netherlands. Quite destitute, right?”
“Yeah, you could call it that.” Lando scoffs. “His father was a psychopath. I don’t know all the details, but Aunt Sophie died young, and after that it was just Max and his sister with their deranged father – bitter and angry that he’d never amounted to anything. Not even his racing career had taken off. He tried to push Max into it – said it was in his blood, from his mother who loved horseback riding and from himself – but when he realised Max actually had raw talent, he stopped him from competing. He couldn’t stand being outshone by his own kid.”
George nods slowly. “From what I’ve gathered, Verstappen took to the criminal life pretty young.”
“Oh, definitely. Probably learned it from his father.” Lando shakes his head. “Look, I really, really hate Max. He’s a bitter, mean-spirited, cruel asshole. But it’s pretty clear his father made him that way. Max could’ve been brilliant – if Jos hadn’t ruined him. He never stood a chance.”
“So he’s like Maximinus Thrax?”
“You’re familiar with his story?” Lando asks.
George leans back into the upholstery. He’s done his fair share of research on the Roman emperor, hoping to find something in that name that might explain Verstappen – not realising it was really Max trying to make sense of the cruel prophecy his grandmother had laid upon him.
“I know enough about Thrax to know his story ends with his head on a pike on the walls of Rome.”
“Yeah.” Lando nods. “It’s the story of a parvenu – someone who comes from nothing, somehow becomes emperor, and then overreaches. There are some parallels to Max.”
“To Max or to his dad?”
Lando’s eyes gleam. “Oh, what an excellent point you make, George.” He claps his hands once, delighted. “That’s what I was thinking too. What if Grandmother wasn’t clairvoyant at all? What if she just named us after our fathers’ sins – and we’ve been living them out ever since, turning them into self-fulfilling prophecies?”
“I’m quite sure your grandmother, may God rest her soul, was not clairvoyant. I think we’re dealing with a classic case of confirmation bias here,” George says, glancing over at Oscar. “What do you think?”
“Most definitely,” Oscar replies curtly – though his eyes stay fixed on Lando, as if he can’t quite shake the presence of the Charlemagnean knight that still clings to Lando’s aura. George studies him for a moment before turning back to Lando.
“Well, thank you for telling us this story,” he says at last. “And for being honest about your family’s connection to a man as controversial as Max Verstappen. I think it’ll be at least somewhat helpful in trying to unsheathe the man.”
“That’s not why I called you here, though,” Lando says.
George looks at him again. There’s an uneasiness to Lando’s posture now; he tugs at his robe, almost absently.
“I think Max is planning to rob us,” he says, finally. “Me and Lance.”
George tilts his head. “That’s highly unrealistic. That’s not Verstappen’s style. He focuses on cybercrime – that’s what Oscar’s been analysing. And then he’s got his… rookies on the streets. Kids he grooms out of programs meant to help them – kids who might’ve had a chance at something else if he hadn’t turned them into his errand boys. He makes them follow the same path he never managed to escape.”
“Yeah,” Lando says. “High-profile stuff isn’t his style. Yet. But I don’t think you understand how much he hates Lance and me. He doesn’t understand why he had to live the life he did while we got to live ours.”
George decides to at least humour him – who knows, maybe there’s a merit to Lando’s paranoia. “What makes you think he wants to rob you?”
Lando stays quiet for a moment, and George glances at Oscar, who still has his eyes fixed on the Lordling. For an instant, his gaze flicks over to George – a barely perceptible shrug. Might as well, says his deadpan face.
“Like I said, I don’t talk to Lance more than I have to,” Lando begins again. “We’ve never gotten along. There’s something rotten about him – like with Max, but in a different way.”
You’re all rotten, George thinks before he can stop himself. Stroll and you are careless – you live your privilege like it’s a birthright. Verstappen hurts bystanders trying to match it.
“But last week, I got this letter,” Lando continues. “It just appeared on my desk, and as far as I can tell, it wasn’t posted.”
He leans forward, shifting the newspaper aside, and hands George an envelope. George takes it carefully and slides out the contents. Inside is a small wood engraving of a man on a winged horse, framed by a banner at the top.
“That’s Orlando, I take it?” George asks. He’s never had much interest in medieval Italian epic poetry, but it’s obvious the figure on the winged horse is the knight Lando was named after.
“Yes,” Lando says, frowning down at the print. “It’s from Gustave Doré’s engravings for Orlando Furioso. I know them well – my father bought me a set for my eighteenth birthday.”
“Was there something else? Anything written?”
Lando shakes his head. “No, but then my cousin texted me.” He reaches for his phone, finds it beside him, and unlocks it. George leans forward as Lando opens the chat. At the top, the name makes him pause: Libertine.
Lando catches the look and smiles faintly. “It’s an inside joke. Forget it. Look at what he sent me.”
George scrolls through the messages – brief, curt, mostly Lando doing his best to sound disinterested. The Canadian cousin’s replies are sparse, but something about their rhythm prickles at George’s instincts. There’s clearly no love lost between those two.
He taps on a blurry photo: another small print of a painting. It shows a fair-haired woman knighting a kneeling man in a surcoat.
“Lancelot?” he asks, looking up at Lando.
“It’s a painting by Edmund Blair Leighton – The Accolade,” Lando says, nodding. “It’s often interpreted as Lancelot being knighted by Queen Guinevere.”
He leans forward, and Oscar does too, craning over George’s shoulder to see the phone screen.
“So, yeah,” Lando adds. “Lance got the same message – or non-message.”
“And you’re sure that came from your cousin?” George asks, handing the phone back. “No text, no note attached?”
“It’s a warning,” Lando says, sounding very sure of it. “He’s showing us both that he can get into our rooms and leave something behind.”
George tries to stifle a sigh. He understands Lando’s paranoia, to a point – if he had a cousin notorious for scams and thievery, he’d be uneasy too, especially if that cousin believed what was yours should have been his. Still, he can’t quite buy the idea that Verstappen plans should be so blatant.
“If he wanted to rob you,” George says, choosing his words carefully, “he wouldn’t have warned you. Now you’re on high alert.”
But Lando shakes his head. “No, you don’t get it. Sure, he wants a payday – he’s got to fund his little operation somehow – but it’s mainly to fuck with us. To get revenge.”
If George is honest, that doesn’t sound like Verstappen, or Thrax, or whatever name he’s using as well. Then again, he hadn’t known Verstappen had cousins – much less cousins he thought had been blessed with something unfairly withheld from him.
“Why now, though?”
“I think he’s getting confident,” Lando says with a scoff. “He’s been in England for a few years now, pulling one job after another right under the nose of the police – and you lot have been powerless to stop him.”
George resists the urge to bristle, because in essence Lando’s right. It’s been two years since he was assigned the Thrax case, and six months since Oscar joined the team – and in that time Verstappen has run circles around them, making them look like fools. Which, admittedly, is probably why Wolff let him come all the way to Somerset on nothing more than a trace.
“And it’s always been about us,” Lando continues, chewing on his lip. “Lance and me. He hates us – violently – like a stray dog thrown scraps while we lived lives beyond his wildest imagination.”
He pauses, then adds quietly, “He doesn’t just want to take what he thinks is his. He wants to humiliate us.” Lando clears his throat. “Like we… used to humiliate him. When we were children.”
“How so?”
“When we were younger, before our grandmother passed, we sometimes flew down to Flanders for the summer holidays. I think our mothers wanted us to at least get to know one another. But there was always this… divide between us, even when we were too young to understand it. Lance and I – though we’ve got very different morals, very different temperaments – somehow knew we were supposed to shun Max. There was something off about him. Something twisted, and violent. We were afraid of him.”
“And I suppose he didn’t take that well?” George asks. Once again, it feels like he’s learning things he shouldn’t – something far too private about a man whose shadow he’s been chasing for two years. A man he already has his own reasons to despise.
“Well, no.” Lando’s brow furrows. “In hindsight, I think Lance and I might’ve been cruel. Might’ve been the problem. Max was already isolated enough, living under that father of his – it’s no wonder he lashed out so easily. Lance and I loved riling him up, loved watching him lose control.”
Like boys throwing stones at a stray dog until it finally bites. George almost feels sorry.
“After our grandmother died, we saw each other only twice more, at our grandfather’s funeral, when he was fifteen, Lance fourteen, and I thirteen. He ignored us, but there was this red-hot rage in his eyes that genuinely frightened me. I can still see him looking across the pew at us, and realising, even then, that we’d made a powerful enemy – one who’d never rest until he’d gotten back at us.”
“And the last time you saw each other?”
“It was… chilling,” Lando says. “Five years ago now. Like I said, Max is a very decent racer, and you know I’ve always loved fast cars – and Lance, well, he’s the heir to Aston. It’s the only thing the three of us ever had in common. We actually met at a charity race. Lance was, of course, driving one of his father’s historic Astons; I had my own stake in it with a McLaren. But to our surprise, Max was there too. He completely ignored us, but Lance and I couldn’t shake the feeling he’d shown up because of us.”
Five years ago. George turns the date over in his head, weighing it against the timeline he’s built of Verstappen’s movements. That must have been just before his permanent relocation to England.
“He made a point of beating us both,” Lando continues. “We were the best three drivers there – though it was just a charity event – but he wanted to prove something. And he did. He mopped the floor with us.”
Lando smiles, almost wistfully. “And then he didn’t even collect the trophy. He vanished before anyone could congratulate him or take his picture. Lance and I ended up fighting about the trophy instead, and I nearly broke his nose.”
George tilts his head. “Why exactly do you two hate each other?”
But Lando waves that off. “That’s nothing to do with Verstappen,” he says, dismissive. “But I think that day, the idea was born in Max – that yes, he might not have grown up like us, but maybe that was an advantage. That it made him who he is: someone very, very capable of beating us at the only thing we were ever good at, while we were too busy being hedonistic fucks.”
George mulls it over for a moment, absently turning the print in his hand – the one Max had supposedly sent. There’s a certain gravity to Lando’s words, a hint of merit. He’d come here hoping Lando might connect something concrete to the Thrax case, maybe even sit on a scrap of intel tying it all together. Instead, he’s been given something far more valuable.
Lando has humanised Verstappen for him – pinned a motive to the shadow, or at least revealed a pattern of behaviour that might prove useful later. George can’t vouch for the quality of the information about this alleged heist aimed at Lando and Stroll, but there’s still something there – a lead, at last. The first in months. Usually, they were left to clean up after Verstappen’s messes, stumbling blindly in his wake.
“Thank you, Lando,” he says finally. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll take your warning seriously. I’ll bring it back to my team and we’ll see about putting some preventive measures in place.”
His old university acquaintance gives him that familiar, radiant smile – the kind that always made George feel, for a fleeting moment, like he was the centre of the world. Lando had a talent for that: for making people feel indispensable, so long as they were useful to him. And today, George realises, he’s been exactly that.
“No, I should be the one thanking you, George.” Lando rises, and George follows suit. “I don’t take it lightly that you’ve driven all the way down here just to listen to me ramble about knights and heists. You’re a real one for that. It was very, very nice seeing you again.”
“You too,” George says – and isn’t entirely sure if he means it. It was enlightening, at least, and that counts for something.
“It was nice meeting you as well,” Lando adds, turning to Oscar, who’s been so quiet these last few minutes that George had almost forgotten he was there at all. Lando hadn’t.
He walks them to the door, then down the steps to their car. He promises to call George on his private number if anything of Verstappen variance should arise – Lando’s phrasing, not his – and then George slides into the driver’s seat, Oscar following, his gaze lingering on the dirty orange McLaren as he passes.
Lando stands at the top of the stairs in his absurd jade dressing gown, arms folded, watching them leave. And George can’t quite shake the feeling of how much he already looks the part – the man of the house. He’s going to make a great lord one day.
In the rear-view mirror, he catches Oscar watching Lando too, and a small smile pulls at his lips.
“So,” George says, “what do you think of our Lordling?”
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
The Thrax Taskforce sits tucked within the Fraud & Cybercrime Division of New Scotland Yard – a compact office with five desks circling the room and, at the back, a small frosted-glass cubicle that houses George’s desk. As lead investigator – and thus pro forma the boss – that’s his territory, if not exactly his sanctuary.
When he and Oscar return at around two in the afternoon, the rest of the team hurriedly shuffles back to their desks. George suppresses a scoff as he passes through the office and steps into his cubicle. He powers on his computer, then immediately leaves again, heading for the little kitchenette where Valtteri – former Europol, now Detective Sergeant and operations coordinator – is waiting in front of the coffee machine, watching it sputter through a slow brew.
“How was the audience with the lord?” Valtteri asks, his Finnish accent softening the edges of his words.
At that, Doriane and Lily, who’d at least been pretending to work, swivel in their chairs to listen.
George glances toward Oscar, who’s already retreated to his corner, halfway through fitting his noise-cancelling headphones over his ears – the ritual barrier he raises whenever the office chatter threatens his concentration.
“How was it, Oscar?” George calls over.
“Very weird,” his data analyst says, without looking up. His fingers flick across the keyboard, entering the impossibly long password that makes Doriane laugh every single time.
“Yeah,” George says. “Like he said – it was weird. But also very, very eye-opening.”
Alexander Albon – something like George’s favourite co-worker, if he were ever to admit to having one – swirls around in his chair, abandoning the paper ball he’s been trying to shoot into the bin.
“Oh, do tell,” he says. “You know we’re all devils for gossip.”
Doriane shoots him a look over her monitor. “Albon, some of us are actually trying to work. Not everything here is about gossip.”
“I’m afraid this one really is,” George says, deadpan, pointing toward Lily He – their financial-crime analyst and probably the smartest person in the room. After Oscar, of course. “Lily, do me the honours and get the board.”
She claps her hands once, delighted, and heads for the storeroom – the one where they stash everything Superintendent Wolff doesn’t like to see when he makes his rounds. George always makes sure his boss knows he runs the operation like a tight ship, even if the storage closet tells a different story.
“Doriane, is the printer still broken?” George asks, wrestling with the ancient machine that only produces ink in abstract Rorschach splatters – shapes Valtteri insists on interpreting in ways that are very worrying.
“I’ve been on the phone with admin constantly,” she sighs. “They keep saying they’ll send someone over, but so far? Crickets.”
“Right. Can you please grab the pictures I sent to the printer next door in Major Crimes?”
Doriane groans. “Russell, I told you to send them to Organised Fraud. Major Crimes always makes fun of us because you insist on being so analogue with your corkboard murder wall.”
He waves her off, and she goes, muttering under her breath. Lily, meanwhile, is wrestling the evidence board out of the storage closet, and Alex jumps up to help her free one of the wheels that’s caught in the doorframe.
At the kitchenette, the coffee machine finally sputters its last, and Valtteri pours two cups. He carries one over to George, wordless but efficient, the quiet ritual of long partnership.
Doriane returns barely two minutes later, a stack of fresh prints in her hand. She passes them to George as she strides back to her desk.
“Thank you for allowing me to complete my daily humiliation ritual,” she scoffs. “They’ve got a new intern over there – a Kiwi, with the saddest excuse for a moustache I’ve ever seen. Made fun of me, even though I’m five years older.”
“I know him,” Lily says from her desk, clicking her tongue. “He’s annoying as fuck.”
George takes the prints – one of Lando from a press release for one of his rallies, and one of Stroll, dark-eyed, dark-haired, with that brooding knightly look that made the choice easy when George found it on Google.
“Okay, listen up,” he says to the room, raising his voice just enough to cut through the low hum of chatter. Everyone perks up – except for Oscar, of course, already buried beneath his headphones at the far end, coding, his horrible playlist vibrating faintly through the desk.
“My old friend Lando – the one I went to Balliol with – called me down to Somerset about something connected to the Thrax case, as you all know.”
He pins the two photos to the wall, left of the one decent picture they have of Verstappen – four years younger, that same cold blue glare that still gives George a shiver every time he meets it, even on paper.
“Turns out,” he says, turning back to them, “Lando Norris, soon-to-be Lord of Somerset, is Verstappen’s cousin.”
He knows he’s got the right team from their reactions. Lily nearly falls out of her chair; Alex gasps audibly; Valtteri who had just taken a sip of coffee promptly chokes on it; and Doriane throws her head back and laughs.
“And to make matters worse,” George continues, “they’ve got another cousin.”
He pins Stroll’s picture on Verstappen’s other side so the three of them look down at him like some unholy trinity – a trifecta of the worst people you’d ever hope not to meet, at least if you’re an upstanding citizen like George and his colleagues pretend to be.
Alex squints at the board. “Wait, I know him too. Isn’t he that car billionaire’s son?”
“How does everyone except me know every single billionaire’s offspring?” George scoffs, gesturing toward Oscar, who’s glanced up from his screen to eye the board. “He knew who he was as well.”
“Oh, Lance Stroll is so much more than just a billionaire’s son,” Alex says with a laugh. “You’re so wonderfully offline, Russell. And honestly, I think it should stay that way. Not everyone needs to know about the Libertine.”
“Wait, I don’t know about that either,” Doriane protests. “What’s the deal?”
“You’re too young for this,” Alex replies, hands raised. “I’m not gonna be the one to introduce you to the depraved world of Lance Stroll’s Twitter. Look it up yourself. You can probably even jot it down as research now that Russell’s told us he’s connected to the case.”
George shoots her a glance, catching her fingers inching toward her keyboard. “Not now, Pin. Stay sharp.”
He points at Verstappen’s picture. “Turns out these three are connected because their mothers are sisters – they’re all half Belgian. And while Norris and Stroll grew up with a silver spoon in their mouths, we all know Verstappen didn’t have it so easy.”
“Oh, that’s delicious,” Valtteri murmurs, leaning back with his hands behind his head, a gleam in his eyes. “This just got personal.”
“Exactly.” George can’t suppress a grin. “My old friend might’ve unwittingly handed us the most important puzzle piece about Verstappen yet. And he all but confirmed that Thrax is his alias. Because – get this – they’re all named after knights.”
“I hate rich people,” Lily says flatly, tossing a dried date from her desk drawer into her mouth. “That’s so tacky.”
“Yeah, I know,” George replies. “But it’s actually from the Belgian side. And Max is named after Maximinus Thrax. Lando confirmed it.”
“Fuck yes!” Alex crows, slapping Lily a high-five. “I fucking called it.”
“We can’t pin anything concrete to him yet,” George cautions, though he’s smiling despite himself. “But it’s a step in the right direction. Especially since Norris and Stroll are getting properly paranoid about Verstappen planning to rob them.”
He takes the two prints – the engravings Lando and Lance received – and pins them beneath their photos on the board.
“They think Verstappen sent them as a warning,” he says. “That he’s coming for them.”
Alex furrows his brow. “As funny as that would be, are we really sure Lord Norris isn’t just getting his aristocratic knickers in a twist? Verstappen’s never been this obvious before.”
“That was my thought too,” George says, pursing his lips. “But a personal vendetta makes people do unprecedented, stupid things. This might finally be the moment he loses his composure – if he really tries to pull off something as outrageous as robbing his cousins, who are, and I cannot stress this enough, very powerful and very well connected.”
“And we’ll be there,” Alex says with a grin, spinning lazily in his chair, “ready to crack down on him the moment he slips.”
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
It’s almost six when Doriane knocks on his door on her way out.
“Boss,” she says. “I’ve uploaded the Shoreditch report – with the adjustments you wanted.”
George, halfway through his fifth cup of coffee and rereading Lily’s latest assessment of whatever Verstappen’s newest wire fraud has unearthed, looks up. “Thank you, Doriane.”
“I still don’t think line spacing is a valid reason to reject my report,” she mutters.
George gives her a lazy grin. “You’re a great field operator, Doriane, but your paperwork is chaos. It’d be easier to read if you stopped going off on tangents about what you ate during the stakeout.”
“I’m French,” she protests. “I cannot endorse Greggs’ meal deal as a viable lunch option.”
“Go home, Doriane.”
“I absolutely will,” she says, shifting her jacket under her arm. “But Superintendent Wolff is looking for you. He wants you in his office.”
George curses under his breath, setting his cup down. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“He just sent the Kiwi with the abysmal moustache. I caught him at the door before he could annoy you and took the message myself.”
That’s… actually quite thoughtful. He musters a smile as he logs out and stands. “Thank you, Pin. You’re the best.”
She grins, already halfway out the door. “No, you are. Good luck with Wolff. And if he gets you down like he usually does, I recommend scrolling through Stroll’s Twitter on the way home. You’ll feel better in no time.”
When George leaves his office, Oscar’s the only one still at his desk. He’s switched off the overhead light – he hates light – so now the bluish glow from his monitors is the only thing illuminating his face. He looks up when George steps out and pulls one ear of his headphones down.
“What are you still doing here, Piastri?” George asks with a small smile. “Go home. You’ve already racked up enough overtime for two people this week.”
“I will in a sec,” Oscar says. “You meeting Wolff?”
George leans against the doorframe, absently fidgeting with his watch. “Yeah. I should go up there, but I’m stalling.”
“It’s gonna be fine,” Oscar says, deadpan.
He isn’t one to share anxieties – George knows that. Oscar doesn’t do fear, or if he does, he never lets it show. For a moment, George studies him in the blue light, motionless but utterly present, and something like gratitude stirs in his chest.
“I’m really glad you’re on my team,” George says before he can stop himself. It’s not like him to make declarations like that, but it’s been a long day. Verstappen’s still out there, untouchable, and George still hates him with a steady, burning intensity – but looking at his team, at Oscar, he’s at least glad he isn’t facing it alone.
Oscar grimaces, just as George expected. “Go meet the big bad Wolff.”
So George does. He takes the elevator up to the next floor – and, of course, isn’t granted the reprieve of riding it in silence. The intern with the tragic moustache – the one who’s been annoying Doriane all day – slips in at the last second.
“Detective Russell, right?” He beams at him, bright-eyed and painfully earnest. “I’m Liam Lawson. I’m interning at Major Crimes for now, but Superintendent Wolff’s got me making the rounds. I’m scheduled to join your unit next week.”
Oh, Wolff really hates him today.
George manages to keep his face neutral. “We’re a boring unit,” he says lightly. “You’d do better over in Organised Crime – they’re digging through a mafia ring that’s moonlighting as a chain of high-end pizza restaurants.”
But Liam just grins wider. “You’re not boring, you’re working the Thrax case. I love that guy. Huge fan.”
George almost chokes on his own disbelief. A fan.
What is it with Verstappen and these bright-eyed rookies? He seems to draw them in. George has tried to understand it, truly, but whenever he looks at the one good photograph they have of Verstappen, he feels nothing but loathing. Pure, visceral loathing.
“He’s nothing but a petty criminal,” is all George can choke out as the elevator doors slide open. “Idolising him is the dumbest thing anyone could do. I’d expect better from someone interning at the Yard.”
He leaves Liam standing there, and strides down the corridor, jaw tight. At the door to Superintendent Wolff’s office, he pauses just long enough to compose himself – adjusts his collar, smooths his hair, though he knows he already looks immaculate. He raps his knuckles against the wood.
“Come in,” comes Wolff’s voice – stern, deliberate, touched with that unmistakable Austrian edge.
George opens the door. The Superintendent is behind his desk, a neat stack of files in front of him. He’s around fifty, tall, dark-haired, with the kind of presence that commands a room before he even speaks. His eyes are sharp; one eyebrow perpetually raised in mild disbelief – an expression that seems to climb even higher whenever George is the one talking. Lately, George feels like he can’t do anything right by him.
And yet, it hadn’t started this way.
He still remembers the first time he’d heard Wolff speak – a guest lecture during one of his criminology modules at Oxford. George, barely twenty, had been transfixed by the man: the height, the composure, the Austrian accent that should have made him sound faintly absurd but instead only added to his gravity. After the lecture, he’d joined his professor and Wolff for drinks, and somehow – miraculously – found himself being taken seriously. Wolff had been impressed by his curiosity, his sharp mind, and his hunger to learn. He’d told him to find him after he’d finished his degree – and George had.
Now he’s here, in Wolff’s office, feeling perpetually falling behind: behind schedule, behind expectations, even behind Verstappen.
“George,” Wolff says, his accent making the final syllable vibrate, the sound carrying a faintly disappointed edge. “Thank you for your report on the Norris meeting. You had a good hunch to follow it.”
Some of the weight that always crowds George whenever he steps onto this floor lifts a little. “Thank you, Superintendent. I figured if someone from the aristocracy actually wants to talk to the police, it’s probably worth hearing.”
“You were correct in that.” Wolff leans back in his chair, rolling a pen between his fingers. “And, funnily enough, Norris isn’t the only one who’s started to get nervous. Turns out the Stroll heir has contacted Interpol. I’ve just gotten off the phone with Lyon. Director Briatore is sending a liaison officer to work with you on the Thrax case.”
George’s stomach drops. “A liaison?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends. “Why?”
“Lawrence Stroll is a powerful man,” Wolff says, clicking his pen once. “He seems concerned about his operations here in England – if his vengeful nephew really is sending signals to sabotage whatever he can get his hands on.”
“We have no space in the office for a liaison officer,” George protests. “It’s already crowded since Piastri moved in.”
“He can share your office.” Wolff gives him a look that makes it clear how little patience he has for logistics. “He won’t be here full-time anyway – he’ll split his schedule between London and Lyon.”
“Great,” George mutters. “Why does this feel like Interpol’s way of telling us we’re not doing a good enough job?”
“You can thank Lance Stroll for that,” Wolff replies curtly. Then, after a beat, his voice softens. “But I’m sure you and Detective Sainz will work well together. That’s what I’ve always appreciated about you, George – you have drive, but you don’t have ego. You know when to share responsibility, and you don’t try to do it all yourself. That’s why your team respects you.”
Even though it probably isn’t, the compliment feels backhanded. George can’t help but think that way – Wolff’s cool demeanour has taught him to always search for the hidden criticism beneath his words. Praising him for being a team player sounds like, at the same time, a rebuke for not being assertive enough.
A boss like Toto Wolff is impossible to please. George knew that before he applied for the job – but the longer he’s been here, the more he tries, and the more he fails. Sometimes he suspects that Wolff would rather work with Verstappen instead. He’s always had the sense that Wolff regards the two of them as alike: both sharp, both methodical, both capable of holding a dozen threads at once. But Verstappen has a certain ruthlessness George could never hope to emulate.
“Thank you, Superintendent,” George says finally. “Is that all?”
Wolff nods. “Yes, thank you, George.”
George rises and starts across the office toward the door. He’s already halfway through murmuring a polite goodbye when Wolff’s voice stops him.
“George?”
He fights the urge to knock his head against the door and instead turns with a pleasant smile. “Yes, boss?”
“I spoke with Montero Mundt from RE:START today,” Wolff says, clicking his pen closed. “I ran into her while dropping Jack off at my wife’s office – she mentioned what a wonderful addition you’ve been to the programme.”
George turns fully around. “Oh. That’s kind of her.”
He’s only met Carmen a couple of times. She usually isn’t at the community centre when he volunteers during weekends at RE:START – short for Rehabilitation & Education for Street Teens and At-Risk Talent – a non-profit funded partly by the police and one of the King’s charities, meant to keep juvenile delinquents from falling into crime. As far as he knows, she’s a social worker – and a dedicated one. Sometimes he’s walked past one of her classes where she is teaching the kids Spanish or chess.
“I think your volunteering is absolutely admirable,” Wolff says, and for once he sounds completely genuine. “It’s good to see how much you care about these kids – trying to stop them before they’re sucked into a life they’ll never escape.”
George gives him a small, honest smile. “Yeah. Programmes like that saved me once. I just want to give something back.” He hesitates, biting his lip. “Especially since Verstappen’s on the other side of it – getting to them first.”
There’s something unfamiliar in Wolff’s expression then – a flicker of understanding, maybe even pride.
“Good thinking, George,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Now go home. Enjoy your evening.”
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
And George really does try.
But when he finally leaves his office an hour later – even Oscar’s gone home by now – he can’t help feeling dejected. Today hasn’t gone the way he’d hoped. On one hand, he might finally have a concrete lead on Verstappen, something that could tie him definitively to the Thrax alias. On the other, Stroll’s paranoia has landed him with a liaison officer he has absolutely no patience for.
He’s been lucky with his team so far. They’ve all respected him, learned to accept him as their boss quickly – even Valtteri, who’s quite a bit older. But whoever this Sainz from Interpol is, George already knows he’s going to be a nuisance. Interpol liaisons usually are. He’s heard enough horror stories about “external oversight” tangling up Yard operations – people barging in, reorganising things that didn’t need organising. The thought of anyone poking around his carefully structured processes, bringing chaos and clutter into his office, makes his skin crawl.
And he doesn’t want to share his office. It feels like a demotion.
Still, what really drags him down is Wolff’s last comment about RE:START. It was kind of him, he knows that – an attempt to buoy his spirits, to remind him that what he does matters. That he isn’t just chasing phantoms across police databases but actually doing something good. But it always cuts too deep.
Even though he’d much rather follow Doriane’s advice and look at Lance Stroll’s Twitter feed, he opens the photo folder on his phone from two years ago and scrolls through the pictures. His favourite was taken not far from here.
He’d taken Kimi to the offices that day – who’d been his usual ecstatic, endlessly impressed self. George can still picture him marveling at the evidence room, insisting on a photo inside the interrogation suite, laughing about how “cool” it all looked.
It’s always the same: as soon as he types Kimi Antonelli into the search bar, he can’t stop scrolling through the old photos. Kimi in his puffy jacket. His messy curls. The necklace with the little whale fin. The way he always flashed a thumbs-up whenever George took a picture.
George had met Kimi a few weeks after he’d started volunteering at RE:START. The boy had been sent there after being caught shoplifting at Selfridges – sixteen years old, sentenced to community service, and assigned to the old community centre in Hackney where George volunteered.
They’d hit it off instantly. Kimi had come with a small group of friends – Gabi, Franco, and Isack – all witty, funny kids who’d learned early how to navigate the underbelly of the city. George liked them all, but Kimi was different. There was something about him that pulled at George’s instinct to fix things, to protect. For the first time, he’d felt like maybe he really was making a difference.
Over time, George learned that Kimi’s home life was anything but easy – which was something he could relate to all too well. Kimi spent as little time there as possible, staying out on the streets or crashing at friends’ places. Somehow, though, he’d taken to George, despite the badge and the job.
At first they’d bonded over comic books. Kimi was obsessed with Spider-Man, and George had brought him a few early issues of The Amazing Spider-Man that he’d rescued years ago from his stepfather’s rages. Eventually, their meetings grew more regular – the occasional trip to the cinema, and, later, cautious invitations to George’s flat for supervised visits with the social worker present.
Kimi would play Spider-Man on George’s old PlayStation – something that had become impossible at home ever since his mother sold his console for meth.
They’d order takeout together, sometimes with the other boys there too, or Tina – a quiet, reserved girl who hovered on the edges of their group, usually rolling her eyes at whatever ridiculous thing the boys were doing.
Over the course of nearly a year and a half, George had become more than just a mentor to Kimi. At the height of it, the boy was his closest contact outside of work.
At RE:START, George’s role was to mentor the kids in awareness training – teaching them how to recognise the predatory language people used to lure them into running drugs or petty jobs. Kimi and his friends excelled at it. George could tell how genuinely bright they were; they picked up patterns and phrasing faster than anyone else in the class.
They were all bilingual – Kimi came from an Italian family, Franco was Argentine, Isack French-Algerian, and Gabi Brazilian. Tina didn’t speak much, but she had an accent too. Between them, they spoke in a wild, fluid mix of Romance languages, laughing at their own code.
It gave them an edge, George thought. The kind of fast, flexible thinking that could have taken them anywhere – if the world had given them even half a chance.
In hindsight, George should have seen the signs. The way the group started whispering more and more among themselves, falling silent the moment he came near. How Kimi – who’d once been fascinated by everything to do with Scotland Yard – had begun to scoff at anything that carried a badge.
To this day, George doesn’t know how Verstappen reached them. He must have been careful, deliberate, impossibly smart about it. He doesn’t know what Verstappen promised them either – but it had to be something greater than Spider-Man and takeout, greater than the odd visit to the Yard.
One by one, they vanished from the community centre in Hackney. Isack first. Then Gabi. Then Franco.
Kimi held out the longest. And even though it’s been nearly two years, George still lies awake some nights, torturing himself with the same questions. What could he have said? What could he have done differently? How could he have made Kimi stay – made him choose the light instead of whatever Verstappen offered?
But then, one day, even Kimi stopped showing up.
Tina came for a little while longer. George had managed to corner her one afternoon, asking where the boys had gone, why Kimi wasn’t replying to anyone’s messages. She’d said something about a job – something that paid well – and about a safe house to come home to.
And George couldn’t even argue with her. After all, the community centres only kept their doors open during the day. At night, the kids still had to go home. And money – real, tangible money – was something RE:START could never offer them. From Tina he’d finally heard the word Thrax — and that had been enough. Enough confirmation to know it was Verstappen who’d stolen his kids away, like the Pied Piper from the old fairy tale.
George only saw Kimi once after that. Almost a year ago now.
Kimi had been walking down the street with Gabi, sharing a kebab box between them – laughing about something, light and unbothered, as free as he’d always been. George had just come from a date with a woman whose name he can’t even remember now when he spotted him.
And Kimi had seen him too. He’d frozen mid-laugh. That look – George will never forget it. The flash of guilt, almost pain, crossing the boy’s face. Like seeing the detective across the street had suddenly reminded him just how far down the wrong path he’d gone.
Kimi had nudged Gabi, whispered something panicked, and pointed at George. Gabi’s eyes had met George’s for a heartbeat – full of a strange, heavy remorse – before both of them turned and bolted down the street – where George couldn’t follow. Two lanes of traffic between them, and by the time he’d crossed, they were gone. He’s never seen Kimi again.
Losing him is something George has never managed to get over. He’d already loathed Verstappen for the damage he caused, for the wreckage he left behind in George’s case files – but this was different. Now it was personal.
And that’s why proving Verstappen’s guilt has become his greatest obsession. The day Wolff signs that arrest warrant will be the best day of George’s life. (Even though he tries not to think about what will become of Kimi when that day finally comes.)
And there are new kids now, too – at the community centre. That’s why George still shows up every weekend. Why he still sits with them, talks to them, treats them like adults while he warns them about the pitfalls of making a deal with the devil.
He doesn’t know for sure if it helps, but it feels like he’s making a difference. Maybe just a small one.
Still, he’d trade it all in a heartbeat to have Kimi back.
Sometimes he tells himself it’s not even about the boy anymore, that it’s about Verstappen – about catching him, proving he’s the one responsible. But deep down, he knows that isn’t true. He genuinely mourns Kimi, and his brilliant friends, and the thought of their bright minds being used in service of someone like Verstappen makes him sick to his stomach.
He leaves the Scotland Yard building behind, walking along the murky Thames – already swallowed by the colours of night – on his way to the Tube that will take him home. Home to his empty flat. Home to no one waiting.
And in moments like these, George can’t help but wonder why it feels like the person he’s closest to in the entire world is Max Verstappen.