Hidden Witness

THREE

‘ How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t kill her.’

The prisoner smashed his fist on to the interview room table and glowered angrily at Detective Superintendent Henry Christie, his face now a blotchy red, neck sinews tight as wire. There had been a full day of denials and an increasingly tense and confrontational atmosphere as Henry had relentlessly twisted the screw, turning an initially placid suspect into one who seethed and showed his true colours. A man unable to contain rage.

Henry was now feeling jaded by the process, but still wanted to push on, knowing the momentum of an interview was invaluable. However, the man’s solicitor had started bleating about periods of adequate rest, as per the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and Henry knew there had to be a break in order to comply with the law.

He leaned on the table and fixed eye-to-eye contact with the prisoner.

‘Mr Twist… Dennis,’ he began, keeping his voice level and unemotional, a tool that had managed to wind-up the suspect all day long. ‘Time’s getting on and we’re reaching a point where we have to conclude the conversation for the day. But before we pack up and you go back to your cell for a lovely sleep, there’s a few things I’d like to say.’ Henry paused, ensuring he’d got Twist’s attention. ‘You are a dangerous and violent man. You cannot control your temper. You act on impulse and gut feeling, and a red mist comes down over your eyes when you get angry — and then you attack. Which is what happened in the case of your girlfriend, isn’t it?’ Henry stopped again. ‘She wanted to end the relationship with you because of your increasing levels of violence towards her — and you suspected, without a shred of evidence, that she was seeing another man. Despite her denials, you strangled her with a length of clothesline, then disposed of her body and tried to destroy her remains by setting them on fire.

‘You then showed yourself to be a man who lies by pretending that she left you, and you continued to use her mobile phone to text her friends after you’d killed her, didn’t you? You tried to make them believe she was still alive.’ Henry gave a thin smile. ‘Maybe you should’ve got rid of the phone? Awful things mobiles, aren’t they?’

Twist’s face was a mask of anger. His teeth ground audibly, nostrils flared wide. His breathing was laboured and his fists bunched tightly in front of him. Henry kept up the eye contact, seeing the slight contraction of Twist’s pupils as he listened to this summary. ‘You murdered Helen Race, then you disposed of her body like you were throwing out trash. Then you covered it up by lying… lying… lying…’

Twist gave an almost imperceptible, but nonchalant shrug.

‘Thing is, though, Dennis, you were absolutely right about her. She was seeing someone else.’

The blood drained from his face.

‘You only suspected it,’ Henry whispered, ‘but our investigations have uncovered that she was seeing somebody else.’

Twist’s chest drew in air. ‘Bitch,’ he hissed. ‘Who?’

Henry gave his almost imperceptible shrug. ‘Not at liberty to reveal that.’

‘You don’t have to. I know.’

‘And that’s why you killed her, isn’t it? She got what she deserved, didn’t she?’ Henry was tightening things again. ‘I can see how you would feel. Cheated on, treated bad, mocked, laughed at behind your back. Despised. You put two and two together. Didn’t have to be a rocket scientist, did you?’

Sometimes it happens, Henry thought, sometimes it don’t. He waited for the reaction.

Twist sat back, his mouth contorting. He averted his eyes, which seemed to film over.

‘I hit her hard, first. With a hammer I got from B and Q. That felt good. The sound of it hitting her skull. The feel. I felt it sink into her skull. She was still alive when she hit the floor, right next to the ironing board. Handy, huh? She’d been ironing, see? So I used the flex, wrapped it round her throat.’ Henry saw Twist’s fists bunch up as he relived the moment. ‘Couldn’t stop myself. Knew it was wrong, but couldn’t stop… yeah, red mist.’

Henry emerged from the interview room an hour later having got Twist to take him through everything in detail. It was a harrowing sixty minutes, but from the point of view of a detective investigating murder, very satisfying because the confession was all they had. Twist had covered his tracks well, with one or two bloopers maybe, and the case against him had been circumstantial and slightly rocky. Now Twist was screwed.

Henry and the local detective sergeant, who’d been ‘second jockey’ with him in the interview, walked into the custody office and booked the master copy of the interview tape into the secure system. Then they made their way through Blackpool nick to the CID office on the ground floor. They stood aside to allow a couple of uniformed officers to rush past them on some emergency call-out or other.

In the CID office, all but deserted at that time of night, Henry and the DS discussed the case which would need tying up by the local cops. Henry, a detective superintendent jointly in charge of Lancashire Constabulary’s Force Major Investigation Team, had other things to do. He had only become embroiled in interviewing the suspect following a fairly desperate request from the DS whose interviewing team had been stonewalled by Twist. Superintendents rarely got involved in tactical interviews, but Henry had not wanted to lose this one, a murder that was particularly gruesome and upsetting.

The DS thanked him and Henry rose to leave. He was already anticipating a tumbler of Jack Daniel’s, a bit of supper with his wife, Kate, and bed. He should have known better than to look forward to the simple pleasures of life.

He’d parked his Ford Mondeo in a public car park at the front of the police station, and to get to it necessitated him exiting by way of the public enquiry desk on Bonny Street. As usual, the waiting area was busy, people queuing for attention. Henry emerged from the door behind the enquiry desk, his eyes taking in the people, seeing the back of the public enquiry assistant busy at the counter. He let himself out through the security door into the public foyer, the eyes of the public playing over him. He didn’t want to hang around, but his eyes caught two people in particular.

One was a young girl, mid-teens, sitting forlornly on a bench, holding a pair of broken high-heeled shoes in one hand, and her head in the other. Her tiny skirt rose up high to reveal her shapely legs.

Second was a young man, maybe slightly older than the girl, sitting at the opposite end of the same bench, though obviously not with her. His head was in his hands and blood dripped between them on to a towel laid out on the tiled floor.

These two made him stop. They looked like they’d been badly assaulted. Mid-stride, Henry pivoted towards them and they looked up at him.

Henry recognized the young man as being a Goth because his youngest daughter had been through a Goth phase, which thankfully had been short-lived. On his face, in the white make-up, Henry could clearly see the imprint of the sole of a shoe, undoubtedly a trainer, where he had been stomped. His whole face was swollen, both eyes blackened for real, under the black make-up, and they were swollen, turning purple. He no longer needed the Goth make-up to look like one.

The girl, too, was a mess. Her knees, elbows and skin were scraped, cut, bleeding. Her skirt was torn. She gulped at Henry, lips trembling, tears brimming on the edge of her eyelids.

‘What happened?’ he asked generally.

The two victims exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to start. Two polite kids, Henry thought, wrong place, wrong time. The girl blurted, ‘Two lads jumped me, just out there.’ She sobbed, losing composure. ‘Stole my purse, my phone, my money.’ Her bottom lip quivered like jelly.

‘An’ I got jumped in town. Two guys, nicked my phone,’ the Goth said, ‘then kicked the crap out of me.’

‘Do you know each other?’

They shook their heads and the lad said, ‘No, but we think they were the same two lads who did it.’

Henry acknowledged this. ‘Either of you had any medical treatment?’

Again they shook their heads.

‘Anyone spoken to you yet? A detective, maybe?’ Henry jerked his thumb at the enquiry desk. More head shaking.

‘Right,’ Henry tutted. He let himself back in behind the desk and sidled up to the Public Enquiry Assistant, or PEA. She was recording the production of driving documents. Henry saw her name badge said ‘Ellen Thompson.’

‘Who’s dealing with the two robbery victims?’ he asked.

She glared at him, clearly harassed. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I do — Detective Superintendent Christie,’ he said stonily, not liking her attitude at all, under pressure or not. There was a slight change in her body language at the revelation of his rank, something he didn’t particularly like doing.

‘I’ve phoned up to CID, said they’d send someone down.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Half hour… dunno.’

Henry grunted. He picked up a phone and dialled the office and spoke to the DS he’d just left, told him to get a DC down to the desk and a crime scene investigator for photos. There was nothing so effective as getting snaps of victims before they’d had chance to clean themselves up. Worked wonders in court. He also told the DS to ensure that whoever was tasked to the job came down with a first aid kit.

He hung up the phone, picked it up again and dialled nine for an outside line. Then three nines for an ambulance. He came back out on to the public side of the counter, followed by a very reluctant looking detective constable carrying a green first aid kit.

‘Sort ’em,’ Henry ordered. ‘Properly.’

‘Did you freakin’ well see that?’ the older boy demanded, utterly breathless. ‘We… we just witnessed a murder, f’fuck’s sake.’

‘I know, I know,’ the younger one gasped. His hands were on his knees and he was bent double, wheezing. He’d recently started smoking and already it was having an effect on his lungs.

They had run through the streets as though pursued by a demon. Run hard, fast and far, arms and legs pumping, bodies screaming for oxygen, until they could go no further and were certain they hadn’t been followed. Or at least as certain as they could be, bearing in mind they hadn’t dared look back. Just ran.

‘Hell, hell, hell,’ Rory repeated, stunned by what he’d seen.

They had reached the seafront at Blackpool and hared across the promenade at Talbot Square, near to the frontage of North Pier, where they skittered to a stop to catch their breath.

‘He killed that old guy,’ Rory continued, terrified but also impressed, his eyes blazing. ‘Ran the old bastard over, then backed over him, then over him again, then shot him.’ He tried to control his breathing as he paced around in tight circles, his hands on his hips. ‘Christ, murdered him. Ah…’ He put a hand to his scalp. In the terror of the moment, he’d completely forgotten about his injured head, the split in the scalp caused by the old man’s walking stick. It was hurting again. ‘Bastard deserved to die,’ he said, remembering the blow.

His friend looked up at him. ‘No he didn’t, not like that.’

Rory stopped circling and pulled a face at his mate. ‘He did, he effin’ did.’

‘Didn’t.’

‘Soft arse,’ Rory admonished him.

‘We need to go to the cops,’ the younger one said.

‘You must be joking. You never go to the cops for anything.’

‘We’ve seen a murder, Rory… I mean a killing, an assassination. The guys in the car must’ve been after him. It wasn’t an accident. If they’d just knocked him over and driven off, fair dos. But they drove back over him — then shot him. And they saw us, too.’

‘Yeah, you silly twat, all the more reason not to go to the cops, yeah?’

The younger boy was still breathing heavily, feeling light-headed, and now torn between wrong and right, what was sensible and realistic.

‘If we get involved in this, that guy’ll find us and kill us.’

‘Why — d’you think you could identify him?’

‘Pretty bloody sure. What about you?’

‘I’d know him if I saw him.’

‘And he saw our faces, too. Look, we need to keep out of this, for us own good… hey, nearly forgot. Got a picture.’

The younger lad squinted at Rory, then remembered the flash.

‘Used that girl’s mobile to get a shot…’ He patted his pockets. ‘Shit, it’s not here. Must’ve dropped it,’ he said annoyed. ‘Don’t remember dropping it… hell, let’s go find it…’

‘Yeah, right — and meet a man with a gun?’

‘Yeah — let’s go back and see what’s happening. The cops must be there by now.’

‘To where it happened?’ his mate said in disbelief. ‘You kidding?’

‘Be safe. Let’s go see. The killer’ll be long gone. And we might find that phone… I don’t even remember dropping it.’

Rory wrapped his left arm around his mate’s shoulder, grappled him down so he had a neck lock on him, then scrubbed his knuckles into his scalp. ‘C’mon, Mark, mate.’

Henry Christie lived on a pleasant enough housing estate on the outskirts of Blackpool, near to the motorway junction at Marton Circle. He drove there with some anticipation, looking forward to some time alone with Kate, then bed. It had been a long day, but there was nothing unusual in that. Ten hours was the norm, twelve unexceptional, nothing to whinge about.

The last few months had been a hard slog, though, since he’d been promoted to the rank of detective superintendent and he had a lot of plates spinning. He was dealing with a protracted investigation into a gang that had sprung a prisoner from court four months earlier, killing a motorcycle cop in the process. He thought that progress was being made, but even though the gang members had been identified, proving the offence and getting them to court was going to be difficult, not least because they still had to be located as they were lying low in various hot spots across the world. But he remained optimistic. He was also searching for the contract killer of an escaped convict, a professional who worked alone, and had still yet to be identified. And other jobs continued to come in, mostly routine stuff like Dennis Twist, but still very serious.

Which is why he was happy to be getting home that evening.

That night he was not on any call-out rota.

He was scheduled for two rest days, and then he and Kate were going for a two-day break to Venice, their first real holiday since their honeymoon after their remarriage. Gondolas, canals, a posh hotel, outrageous prices, historic buildings, Italian food and good hearty sex were on Henry’s menu. Bliss.

He smiled at the prospect as he drew up on his driveway, parking his Mondeo alongside Kate’s recently acquired Fiat 500, a purchase she had not adequately explained to him as yet and which he could not stop himself from frowning at.

The police were on the scene within minutes. The driver of the next car along Charnley Road had almost driven over the old man’s body in the middle of the road, mistakenly thinking it was a bunch of rags. He’d stopped in time, scrambled out of his car, then, shocked, worked out exactly what was lying there. Horrified, but still thinking, the driver reversed his own car ten metres back down the road, flicked on his hazards and called the police from his mobile.

The first cops on the scene were traffic officers from the Road Policing Unit. The incident had been called in as a fatal accident, but it took them only seconds to ascertain this was something far more sinister. They immediately called for back up — local cops, CID and CSIs — then cordoned off the road.

Mark and Rory made their way tentatively back, curiosity driving Rory, caution telling Mark they were doing something silly. They couldn’t get back down along the alley along which they’d followed the old man, as the full length of it was now taped off and a Police Community Support Officer prevented anyone from entering.

Rory, typically, took umbrage about someone in authority telling him what to do. ‘We can go down there if we want,’ he protested.

The PCSO, a pasty-faced young man, not much older than the two lads, and a wannabe cop, stood resolutely at the entrance to the alley, not intimidated by Rory, who he obviously recognized.

‘There’s been an incident on the road at the far end and this is now part of a crime scene — so go away.’

‘What happened?’ Rory asked. ‘Is someone dead?’

‘Why would you ask that?’

‘Just a question,’ Rory said. ‘C’mon pal, let’s go round,’ he said to Mark and dragged him away by the arm. They made their way back down Albert Road, cut across a connecting street and tried to turn up Charnley Road, only to find it blocked by cops and tape, lots of both. People gathered and gawked even though there was little to see, and a fully-fledged constable was on duty limiting comings and goings.

Rory and Mark moved through the growing number of onlookers, trying to get a better view.

‘What’s happening?’ Rory asked someone.

‘Bad accident,’ a man said.

‘Oh, right.’ He exchanged a knowing glance with Mark and raised his eyebrows.

Mark took hold of Rory’s arm. ‘I’ve had a thought… suppose the killer comes back? They do, y’know. Killers come back to the scenes of their crimes, like they go to the funerals of the people they’ve killed. Suppose he sees us?’

Rory sighed patiently at his apprentice and shook his sore head. ‘Not a cat in hell’s chance, pal. He won’t come back — trust me.’ Rory pushed a woman out of the way and peered excitedly down the street. Mark hung back, unsettled, wanting to leave.

As well as being able to appreciate a fine pint of Stella Artois, Henry Christie was partial to a finger or two of whisky. He was no connoisseur but could tell the difference between cheap blended and a decent malt. He actually liked both, mixing cheap stuff with lemonade occasionally, and sipping the more expensive stuff with a chunk of ice. His in-betweener, though, his regular tipple, was Jack Daniel’s. He loved its smoky flavour and often imagined the sound of the Mississippi gurgling by as he drank it.

He’d got home, changed into jeans and a tee shirt, put his slippered feet up on the coffee table and had bitten into a baked-ham, Lancashire cheese and piccalilli sandwich on thick bread, prepared by Kate, and was eagerly anticipating the JD to accompany it.

They were chatting about their little holiday, just running through a final check of things they needed to take. Kate seemed to have covered every eventuality, planning to pack as much as possible. Henry was less bothered.

‘It’s not as though Italy is a third world country if we do forget anything,’ he pointed out. ‘They’ve got shops like us, y’know.’ He took another bite of the sandwich and sat back. ‘We can get HP sauce if we need it,’ he teased, but inwardly he liked Kate’s attention to detail. It was rare to go on holiday with her and discover something had been forgotten. ‘All I need is tee shirts, shorts, money, passports and tickets.’

‘You’re very basic,’ she said huffily and sat down next to him on the settee, thigh to thigh. She was very excited about going away.

Henry turned his head slowly to her and slitted his eyes mysteriously. ‘As you’ll discover, babe.’ He held the look for a moment, then took another chunk out of the sandwich, not having realized how ravenous he was. ‘What’s on the box?’

‘Not much.’ Kate sat back and sipped her own whisky and lemonade, made with a supermarket cheapo brand. She sighed contentedly. ‘We need to do a last minute shop tomorrow. I need a new dress.’

‘OK,’ Henry said amiably. He swallowed a mouthful and was reaching over for his JD when his mobile phone rang. It was on the coffee table, next to his drink.

‘Bugger,’ Kate said under her breath. Her mouth warped into a slightly unpleasant shape.

Henry gave her an apologetic look, knowing the call was unlikely to be from anywhere other than work. The display said, ‘Unknown caller.’

‘Henry Christie.’

‘Boss?’ came the first word, making Henry’s heart sink with its inflection. It was the detective sergeant he’d recently left at Blackpool police station to tidy up the Twist case. Henry hoped it was a minor query, but he knew it wouldn’t be.

‘Go on, Alex.’

‘Hope you don’t mind me calling, but there’s a job just come in.’

‘I’ve finished for the day — for five days, actually.’

‘I know,’ the DS — his surname was Bent — said wearily, ‘it’s just that the Chief Constable just happened to be here when it came in, doing one of his unannounced “catch you doing something you shouldn’t be doing” visits and he wants a quick response to it. The nearest on-call super lives in Blackburn, so he said you’d do it.’

I’ll bet he did, Henry thought. His mouth twisted in a similar way to Kate’s — whose face hadn’t changed its expression. She looked as though she’d been given a bowl of fried whitebait when she’d been expecting Dover sole: very annoyed.

‘What’s the job?’ Henry asked.

The DS, who hadn’t yet turned out to it himself, explained what he’d been told. Henry listened, sitting up as he did, paying close attention. He clarified a few points, asked some pertinent questions and issued some instructions. ‘I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,’ he promised and ended the call. He placed the phone down slowly and looked at Kate. ‘Sorry love,’ he said ruefully, giving her a pained expression. ‘Sounds a bit of a messy one. There’s no one else nearby to cover.’

She held his gaze, then said, ‘This better not screw up my holiday.’

‘It won’t. I’ll just cover it, then hand it over. Promise.’

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Same old story.

Henry stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, glanced sadly at the JD, and was aware that the warm fuzzy atmosphere had just turned cold and icy.

The police moved the public further and further away from the scene until they’d sealed off a good two hundred metres either side of the incident and completely closed the road, as well as the whole length of the alley.

Rain started to fall heavily as Henry, having parked his car almost a quarter of a mile away, pushed his way through the dwindling crowd of onlookers, their enthusiasm for the grisly tempered by a downpour. He always preferred to walk up to outdoor murder scenes. It gave him more time to take in things, assimilate matters, rather than racing up and leaping out of cars like the Flying Squad. He hunched up the collar on his raincoat, ducked under the cordon tape and flashed his warrant card at the on-guard constable, who had scuttled up to him thinking he was a member of the public trying it on. After a close inspection of the ID, Henry was allowed through, pulling a knitted cap out of his pocket and tugging it down on to his head, over his ears, cursing the rain. It was one of the worst things that could happen to an exterior crime scene. Nature’s way of swilling away evidence for good. He hoped the first cops on the scene had acted swiftly and professionally to protect and preserve evidence.

The local DS, Alex Bent, the one Henry had received the phone call from on this murky night, hurried towards him, head down against the rain that was now a torrent. Henry looked past him to see a lighting rig and a crime scene tent being erected. Good, he thought. DS Bent briefed Henry quickly, then led him up to the body.

The younger of the two boys had noticed Henry Christie’s arrival and slid into the shadow, not wishing to be spotted. Rory backed off too. Both boys knew Henry, but for different reasons, and neither wanted to come face to face with him.

‘There’s nowt to see now,’ Rory said.

‘We saw it all anyway,’ Mark said.

‘Pity we couldn’t find that phone,’ Rory said. ‘Anyway, let’s bog off… down to the arcades, eh?’

Mark screwed up his face. He wanted to go home, although there wasn’t anything to go home for. His mother would be out and there was no one else. He just wanted to get back to his room, curl up in bed and rid his mind of the image of the murder.

Rory took his arm. ‘Come on, or we’ll get pissed wet through.’

‘I don’t know,’ Mark whined.

‘Stop being arsey… let’s check out what’s happening in town and if there’s nowt, we’ll hike it home. The chippy’ll be open — and hey — we can afford the full hit. You could take it home from there.’

The prospect of taking home fish, chips and mushy peas was mouth-watering.

‘OK then.’

It was an old adage: you don’t get a second chance at a crime scene. So Henry quickly ensured that everything was done to protect it, particularly when its seriousness became apparent when he saw the poor mangled body of the old man, crushed under the wheels of a car, and the bullet wounds to the head that had left horrendous exit wounds. Standing underneath the hastily erected tent against which the rain pounded incessantly, Henry took it all in, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, letting his brain start to work on hypotheses.

He inhaled, asked Bent, ‘Any ideas who he is?’

‘Not as yet. I haven’t allowed anyone to go through his pockets. Didn’t want to spoil anything.’

Henry nodded. ‘We’ll save that for the mortuary. Witnesses?’

‘Uniform are knocking on doors, but nothing yet.’

He nodded again, trying to piece it all together. His instinct was to go through the pockets for an ID, but there was a lot of stuff to do before that stage was reached. He needed the CSIs and a forensic team to do their job; he wanted the Home Office pathologist on scene, too. He didn’t mind speculating, but didn’t want to be drawn to any firm conclusions that could lead him down a blind alley. The man had been run over and shot, and though he was pretty certain in which order that had happened, he didn’t want to get it wrong, as the sequence of events would have a fundamental bearing on the investigation.

Then the tent flap was drawn back and a rain-drenched constable said, ‘Can I have a quick word, boss?’ to Henry. He went to him, but stayed under cover.

‘Fire away.’

‘Might be nothing, but I’ve been having a look down this alley.’ The PC turned and pointed to the alley that ran at right angles to the road. Henry poked his head out of the tent and squinted through the rain into the passageway.

‘And?’

‘Dog shit — right up by that wall.’

‘Dog shit,’ Henry said.

‘There’s a footprint in it, but it’s sort of tight up against the wall and not generally in a place where someone would step in it. Just wondered if it was worth preserving…’ His voice trailed off uncertainly, as if preserving a mound of canine excrement was as ridiculous as it sounded. ‘Y’know, before it gets washed away.’

That’ll be a popular one to get a cast from, Henry thought, already visualizing the CSIs tossing a coin over who drew the shit end of the stick. He nodded. ‘Cover it up. You never know.’

‘OK, boss — I already got a seed tray from a resident,’ the officer said triumphantly.

‘Good man,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

The boys ran down to the promenade through the rain and into one of the amusement arcades they frequented, where they mingled with a few of their mates for a while. Rory’s head injury caused a stir of interest. He kept it vague as to how he got it, making up a cock and bull story about a cop whacking him with a baton that no one believed, until all interest dwindled and the two lads stood at a one-armed bandit, feeding it change from a fiver they’d cashed.

Finally, they lost it all and decided to call it a night, emerging into the rain and heading back up to the estate they lived on, which was about a twenty-minute walk away.

‘We should nick a car,’ Rory suggested.

‘That would be pushing our luck,’ Mark said. ‘We’ve robbed three people, not been caught, and watched an old bloke get murdered… nuff’s enough,’ he went on, clearly uncomfortable with the whole evening. Rory picked up on his friend’s tone of voice.

‘You can’t go to the cops, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, course.’

‘More friggin’ trouble than they’re worth. Do not get involved. They hate my family as it is, especially that Henry Christie.’

Mark looked quizzically at him. ‘Christie?’

‘Yeah, that detective who turned up.’

‘I know the one you mean. You know him, do you?’

‘Bastard — always mixing our family a bottle. You know him too?’

‘He dealt with my sister’s death.’

‘Ahh,’ Rory said sagely, knowing a touchy subject when he came across one. ‘What are you having from the chip-hole?’

‘Going for pie, chips and peas, me,’ Mark said, having reviewed his options, ‘covered in that stodgy gravy they do.’

‘Sounds good… come on.’ Rory plucked Mark’s sleeve and they ran on in the rain, deliberately crashing through puddles so they couldn’t get any more wet if they tried, reverting in many ways to the adolescent carefree kids they really should have been.

They arrived at the fish and chip shop about ten minutes later, soaked and breathless, and bought their food. The shop was on a small row of retail outlets in a block on the edge of their estate. Behind the row was an unlit, underused car park, strewn with debris and the burnt-out shell of a car. The lads had to walk across this piece of land, then cut into a high-walled alley that dog-legged and came out on to the estate proper.

Crossing the car park and going into the alley was the quickest way on to the estate, but as Mark came out of the chip shop, his food wrapped in paper and placed in a thin plastic bag, and walked to the end of the shops, he paused and looked across the dark car park. An unpleasant sensation flitted down his spine. A bad memory came back to him. He shivered.

Rory barged into him purposely. ‘Hey, watch it,’ he said, elbowing Mark out of the way. Then he stopped and looked into his friend’s face. ‘You OK?’

Mark snapped out of it. ‘Fine.’

Rory scrunched up his face and shook his head. ‘You’re too much in touch with your girlie side,’ he taunted and punched Mark’s upper arm. ‘Gay boy.’

‘I’m not, I’m fucking not,’ Mark protested, rising to the bait as only a sensitive teenager can. But his moment of reverie had gone. They set off across the car park, leaving the well-lighted place behind them, plunging into darkness.

Locally, the alleyway they were walking towards was known as Psycho Alley, so named because of the high number of criminal incidents that had taken place there over the years, from rapes to robberies. The council were always promising to demolish it and put some lighting in, but never seemed to manage to do either. It had become a no-go area for law abiding people at all times of day and night, being easier and safer to take the long way around rather than risk becoming a crime statistic.

For two streetwise mid-teens, though, it was a place that held no fear.

And in fact, if they had reached Psycho Alley, real name Song Thrush Walk, it was possible both of them could have survived. As it was, only one did.

‘I am really starving,’ Rory said, lifting his plastic bag up to his nose, inhaling the wonderful aroma of his supper, that combination of hot chips, vinegar, curry sauce and fish. ‘I could eat it now — that new lot at the chippy are really good,’ he said, referring to the new owners of the business.

‘You’ll enjoy it better in front of the telly,’ Mark said.

Rory gave Mark a curious glance. ‘Not with my lot of grabbing gits. Be nowt left. I’ll have it in my room, unless our kid’s there

… or, I could always come to your house, couldn’t I? Your mum won’t be in, will she?’

Mark hesitated. To have Rory around and inside the house was perhaps taking things a step too far. Mark wanted to keep his home life — what there was of it — separate from his so-called friendship with this lad, at least for the moment. Rory had a terrible reputation on an estate renowned for bad reputations, was often known to steal from his mates and then intimidate them with threats of violence if they complained. It wasn’t that Mark had a lot to protect, but what he had he wanted to keep.

‘Mm,’ he began doubtfully, wondering how to phrase the rejection tactfully — but before he could say anything, a figure loomed up in front of him and Rory.

‘Hi guys,’ the man said. He was in dark clothing, against a dark background.

The lads stopped.

A feeling of deja vu — and complete and utter dread — coursed through Mark’s body, like razor wire being drawn through his veins. History repeating itself.

The man stood in front of them, the entrance to the alley maybe ten metres behind him.

In that instant Mark knew exactly what this was about.

‘Scuse me,’ Rory said, not getting it. He split away from Mark, sidestepping the figure with the intention of simply walking past. But the man moved into Rory’s path.

‘Don’t think so,’ he said.

Rory peered at the man’s face and then, even in the dark, just the slightest glint of light from the lamp posts way back at the fish and chip shop, a hundred metres behind them, he recognized him.

‘Shit,’ he uttered, ducked low and tried to run to the man’s left. Not quick enough. The man pivoted. There was something black and bulbous in his hand. There was a dull double-‘thwuck’, accompanied by a silver-white flash as the man managed to touch the muzzle of the gun on to Rory’s temple and fire. It was as if the teenager had been hit by the right hook of a heavyweight boxing champion. He staggered sideways, then his legs crumpled underneath him.

The man contorted away from Rory, Mark being his next target. He was moving quickly, but there was something unhurried, calm and efficient in the way he swivelled.

By contrast, Mark moved by instinct and fear, which gave him the slightest of edges as he swung the plastic carrier bag containing his newly bought feast into the man’s face. The bag — possibly the cheapest and flimsiest plastic bag ever made — burst on impact, showering the attacker with an inferno of pie, chips and peas. He screamed and reared away, tearing at the hot food with his hands.

Mark ran for the alley, knowing he had only seconds at most.

‘Goddam little bastard,’ the man bellowed.

Mark reached the first right of the dog-leg in the alley. The brick wall above his head exploded with silent missiles: the man was shooting at him. Mark ducked low, threw himself around the corner, not even allowing himself a micro-peek over the shoulder. That would have slowed him down. Even so, he was aware that the killer had recovered and was giving chase, could hear footsteps pounding.

The young lad ran towards the next corner, a left, just metres ahead. He skidded around it, feet sliding in the gravel, careening into the wall, then pushing himself upright and running hard, arms pumping. He was fast and lithe — a good sprinter — and he hoped that his recent cigarette habit wouldn’t slow him down too much.

Still the footsteps were behind him. The man was fast and determined.

The alley opened up on to one of the roads on the estate. Mark did not pause to check for traffic, running across the road, bounding over a low hedge into a garden, then down the side of a house into the back garden, noisily kicking over some tins stacked next to a wheelie bin. They clattered loudly. Mark cursed, then abruptly changed direction by ninety degrees and ran parallel along the back of the house, across a paved area, then leapt across a broken fence into the next garden along, landing awkwardly but using his momentum to keep going.

A dog barked hysterically nearby. Someone shouted an obscenity.

Mark kept going, changed direction again and clambered over a back fence, dropping into another garden, ran through it and came out on another road, this time a cul-de-sac.

He stopped, wheezed for breath, in the middle of the road, his eyes wild.

An engine revved. A car swerved into the street, lights blazing.

Mark knew his cars and instantly recognized it as the Volvo that had struck the old man.

Terrified, trapped by the onrushing car, Mark remained transfixed by the headlights — then his survival gene kicked in. He spun, ran, the car only feet behind him, catching him, bearing down, trying to mow him over.

The cul-de-sac opened into a turning circle.

Once more Mark changed direction, cutting across the headlight beam, his shadow long and distorted. He swooped behind a parked car, then cut down a tight public footpath running along the side of a house, hearing the car swerve and stop behind him.

He kept going, never looking back. Pushing himself on, forcing more out of his being than ever before, using his intimate knowledge of the estate he’d lived on all his life to duck and weave, to lay false direction in case he was still being followed. Down alleyways that strangers would have mistaken for dead ends, but which Mark knew he could cut through. Along streets, through gardens, on to the fields surrounding the estate, until he reached the back of his house.

But he didn’t just barge in. He secreted himself right at the back of the garden, sitting on a damp patch of weed. Here he caught his breath and with the patience of a deer knowing it was being hunted, waited still in the grass, unmoving, watching until he was positive it was safe to go home.

Five minutes passed. Nothing moved, other than the usual. This was one of the quiet avenues on the outer edge of the estate.

Then a car drove slowly past. Mark craned to see. Not the Volvo, one he recognized as belonging to a guy from the next avenue.

Another three minutes. Then another car, cruising. This time it was the Volvo.

His whole being tightened up.

It went by, two shapes inside it.

Then it was gone. He gave it five more minutes before crawling to the back door, kneeling up to the lock and inserting his key, letting himself in. He switched no lights on. Moved through the house on his hands and knees, along the hallway, checking the front door was bolted from the inside, then slithered upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door behind him. He edged to the window where he drew the curtains slowly and then, the light still off, he flopped on to his bed, exhausted.

Then he began to shake.