Stitch-Up by Sophie Hamilton Page A

a dice.
    â€œThe houses are rigged because gangs go safari round here,” he said, as we retraced our footsteps once again.
    â€œSafari?”
    â€œWhen gangs head out of the dead zones to crook the golden postcodes. Since the truce after the last lot of riots, the gangs stopped robbing their own. They hunt big game now. They’ve got a taste for it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThe gangs hit the rich now. Their true enemy.”
    I knew all about the robbing of rich neighbourhoods. A few weeks ago, a kid in a balaclava had robbed one of my mother’s friends at knifepoint outside her house. They’d stolen a £50,000 Rolex, her £100,000 wedding ring and her £75,000 engagement ring. Combined haul – £225,000. Jackpot. I wanted to say how that sucked, but I bit my tongue. I was on a last warning. I had to be careful – or else I’d be history.
    We walked on in silence.
    After a while, we entered a street with a small parade of shops. Noticing a camera above a newsagent’s, I hesitated.
    â€œNo film.” Latif saluted the steely eye. “Joe tipped me off. It’s a deterrent.”
    â€œJoe?”
    â€œHe owns the cafe I was talking about. It’s at the end of the parade.”
    We’d only gone a few more paces when Latif stopped dead. I crashed into him.
    â€œWhat the— Dash! That’s you , isn’t it?” He was staring at an info-stop. A large LED screen was playing out ten different news channels.
    I gasped, hardly able to believe my eyes, merely whispered, “My God, that’s me!”
    A technicoloured patchwork of Dashas. My image repeated over and over like a series of Warhol paintings. And standing there in the street looking at my repeated selves, I had the strange sensation that I was more hologram than human.
    Latif turned towards me, eyes wide as flying saucers.
    Behind him, twenty Dashas smiled in unison.
    I touched the GoldRush Media channel and it flicked to full screen – or, more accurately, my smiling face expanded to fill the whole screen.
    Next up, photos of me as a little girl, opening Christmas presents, riding, blowing a kiss, swimming, skating and performing ballet. Fast forward. Recent clips showed me posing at a film premiere and a polo match. A montage of magazine covers came next, plotting out my life from a baby in a sequined romper-suit, right up to the last family photo shoot for Celebrity!
    Well that’s blown it , I thought, totally freaked-out by this impromptu slideshow, right in the middle of the street.
    Breaking news scrolled along the bottom of the screens: Dasha Gold Kidnapped. Okay. So now it was official. I crossed my fingers, praying my parents wouldn’t offer a reward. Fat chance! I tensed up when my worst fear slid across the screen: Tarquin and Tamara Gold, owners of the GoldRush Image Inc, have offered a million-pound reward for information leading to their daughter’s safe return.
    In a flash, my eyes were on Latif.
    His face hardened. He clenched his fists.
    I waited. My stomach fluttered with butterflies.
    All he said was: “Swear down! I’ve been lurking with a goddamn Gold.” A vein pulsed at his temple; apart from that his face was expressionless.
    â€œI’m not a Gold. Remember!” I said firmly, wanting toget a handle on the situation, sensing things were about to spiral out of control.
    His aquamarines fixed me for a few moments, as if he were skim-reading my genetic code, trying to work out how many of my parents’ crazy chromosomes I had inherited.
    â€œYour dad’s scum, Dash. He’s Mafioso. The ultimate predator.”
    â€œI know,” I said simply. “That’s why I’m running.”
    Latif stared at me with narrow-eyed scepticism. “Why should I believe you?” His eyes narrowed some more. “Go on, Miss Gold. Tell me. It’s not like you’ve been straight with me so far, is it?” His