Debt Collector / Season 1, Episode 12
Midnight at Billingsgate
The black cab’s tyres hissed against the wet tarmac as it pulled up outside the rusted gates of Billingsgate at 1:14 a.m., the driver’s breath fogging the glass as he muttered, “You sure about this, mate? Place’s been dead for years.” Arthur Neave didn’t answer, his fingers already on the door handle, the cold metal biting into his palm. The air outside hit him like a slap, damp and thick with the stink of old fish and river rot, the Thames lurking somewhere beyond the shadowed hulks of abandoned market stalls. His polished brogues clicked against the cracked pavement, each step deliberate, as if measuring the weight of the city itself. He could feel it—the web of debts and promises, stretched tight across London, vibrating now with something he hadn’t felt in decades: a threat he couldn’t see. The text had come an hour ago, unlisted number, same as the last. Billingsgate. 1 a.m. Your son’s life. Don’t test me. No signature, no flourish, just the kind of bluntness that carried weight. Arthur’s coat, charcoal wool, hung heavy on his shoulders as he scanned the darkness, the collar turned up against the drizzle that clung to his greying temples. His breath came steady, controlled, but inside, his mind was a clockwork machine, ticking through names, favours, old grudges. Jamie was...