They’d agreed to meet in a bar—one she went to, along with other students. It’d be busy and noisy, with loud music blaring out.

Nobody would notice him, not even dressed like this. They’d think he was off down Canal Street or to a smart club somewhere. No one would guess what he was really up to.

He was excited. A tense knot of nerves in his belly was making him nauseous—her fault. It was always like this with Vida. She had the effect of making his pulse race and his stomach churn. He’d make her pay. He always made her pay because he enjoyed it so much. He liked doing things to her—particularly the other things;

those excruciatingly painful things. In the end she’d get the message. She’d behave and stop making him nervous. She’d have no choice.

The pub she’d suggested wasn’t somewhere he’d normally go. It was a dark and dingy place that smelled of lager and smoke, which made him cough and wrinkle his nose in distaste. It sat under a railway arch, and although smoking was only allowed outside, it wafted in every time the door was opened. No place for a lady. No place for Vida. Why did she have to come here?

He looked around—the nerves were doing his head in. Her fault. Stupid bitch was doing it on purpose. He struggled through the throng of students, making for the bar, and then he saw her.

She was sitting with another girl on a bench against the far wall, giggling and sipping on a beer. He snuck in behind a pillar and watched for a few moments. She was exactly like her photo, and exactly what he wanted. This one was a looker—but was she a perfect match for Vida? He’d have to wait and see; but as far as looks went, she was just how he liked them. He inhaled deeply—this was it. He allowed his mind to wander, just for a moment or two, and imagined her naked, in his special place, on his chair, and ready for him. Shit, he could feel the rush of blood to his loins and the flush on his cheeks. She’d be good—he just knew it.

“Patsy!” He smiled, striding up to her table. “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. Damn train was late.”

“No worries, Jack.” Patsy Lumis smiled back at him. “I’ve just been sitting here chatting with Anna.”

She had the most wonderful American accent. Even better than he’d imagined.

“I thought we could go somewhere to eat,” he offered.

“Somewhere a bit quieter than here. I know a nice place in the Northern Quarter. How d’you fancy it?”

She shrugged and giggled at her friend. “What do you think?

Should I go with him? Maybe you wanna come too? She smiled and looked up at Jack. “You wouldn’t mind Anna coming with us, would you?”

What was wrong with her? Of course he’d bloody well mind!

Couldn’t she go anywhere alone—make a decision without a second opinion? He’d have to change that, even if he had to beat it out of her.

“You don’t really want to do that, do you, Anna? You don’t want to play gooseberry?”

His voice was firm. In fact it verged on the threatening.

Anna took the hint. She shook her head and reached across the bench for her bag. “You’ll be fine, just be careful. Remember what we talked about, and text me,” she instructed Patsy. “And don’t be late back.”

What was she—her fucking mother or something? He’d have to get Patsy away from her. She could be trouble—interfering bitch.

“She’s just watching out for me,” Patsy patted the place beside her where Anna had been sitting. “Come and sit down for. Have a drink, and then we’ll go.” She gave him a big smile.

That was what he needed—a stiff drink to calm his nerves. She was talking again, but he wasn’t really listening to the words. It was her voice, that wonderful American accent. He loved it; just like Vida’s voice. He loved the way she looked; but even better, he loved her white even teeth and those full pink lips—perfect.

Particularly those lips. They’d look so good sewn together. He might try wire this time. He’d do it good and tight. Then she wouldn’t answer him back.

She had that lovely long blonde hair he liked so much, and delicate features. There was even a spattering of freckles on her cheeks. He gulped with emotion; Vida got freckles in the summer.

Chapter 7

Day Three

Julian Batho marched into the main office and caught up with Calladine by the incident board.

“I think I might owe you an apology, Inspector.”

“Not like you, Julian. What is it I’ve done to deserve one?”

Calladine asked.

“You were right. Again.” Julian grinned, raising his bushy eyebrows. “You see, I thought you were pushing it with the accelerant thing—but no, you were spot on.”

Music to Calladine’s ears.

“The accelerant used was petrol. The car ran on diesel.”

“So the bastard did try to torch it?”

“Not my place, I know, but I’d say so. The petrol couldn’t have run off from another car—there was nothing beside or behind it.

Sorry I doubted your theory without checking first. It’s just that you have this way of throwing stuff into the pot without any rhyme or reason.”

“It’s my instinct, Julian. I trust it and it’s not let me down yet.

Not that having you confirm what I suspected helps us much, because we still have a big fat nothing.”

“We might have, sir.” Ruth called out. “We can go and talk to Stone now. He’s come round this morning, and is fit for interview.”

“Bet you’re pleased the theory played out.” She nudged him. “Not that it’ll help much with the workload, but it does show that you’re not losing your touch.”

“Surprised you doubted me, Sergeant,” he replied, pretending to be miffed. “We’ll go and speak to Mr Stone now. We could get lucky. He might have seen something, remembered something that’ll help us.”

* * *

Calladine went to get his overcoat. On his way out he met DCI George Jones, his boss, who’d been looking for him.

“You’re a difficult man to pin down. A word please, Tom.” Jones looked annoyed.

Whatever had happened to piss off the DCI had obviously landed squarely at his feet. Calladine gestured to Ruth to wait, and followed him down the corridor into his office.

“There was a shooting in Manchester yesterday,” began Jones, nodding for him to sit down. “The victim was a key witness in a murder and extortion racket. It was a professional job—a single shot through the left eye socket at close range.”

Nasty, but what did it have to do with them? Surely this was one for Central? Calladine thought.

“The investigation, the evidence gathering—it ran over several months. Make no mistake, this was a major operation. The witness and his family were kept at a safe house under twenty-four hour guard. A lot of money was spent—and now all for nothing.” Jones paused and frowned. “Central knows who did the shooting, Tom.

There is only one name in the frame.”

Calladine was still mystified. Surely this had nothing at all to do with him or the teams stationed at Leesworth.

“And that name gives me one huge problem, DI Calladine.”

Jones sighed. “Because he maintains you will provide him with a cast-iron alibi.”

“You’ve lost me, sir.”

“Can’t you guess, Tom? Have you really no idea?” The DCI paused for a moment, giving Calladine time to think. “Your cousin, Ray Fallon. He took the witness from the safe house and shot him in cold blood. So you see my problem. I have to ask if he’s asked you to lie for him.”

Calladine was astonished that Jones could, even for a second, imagine that he knew anything about this.

“There’s no way I’d ever provide an alibi for that murdering bastard, cousin or not,” Calladine spluttered. “And I’m surprised you could even think that I would. He’s got to be joking. When was this, sir?”

“The witness was killed between eleven and midday yesterday morning.”

Tom Calladine shook his head and cursed. “Are you sure it was him? Fallon usually gets one of his people to do the dirty work.”