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he prepared himself for the buzz of flies and stench of rotting flesh. Pitch blackness greeted him, the temperature inside the house no warmer than the night air outside.
    He walked across the lawn to the front window. The main curtains weren't drawn and a chink in the net curtains allowed a strip of light from the street into the room beyond. He saw bare floorboards and no sign of any furniture.
    After plunging his hands into his pockets, he walked back down the drive. With each step the sense of being watched grew stronger. At the end of the drive he swivelled round, eyes going straight to the first-floor windows. For an instant he thought something pale shifted behind a dark pane of glass. But focusing on the window, all he could see was dim light from the street lamps reflected there.
    Turning the mobile over and over in his pocket, Jon's mind went back to the start of the summer.

Chapter 2
     
    May 2002
    Jon's mobile began to vibrate on the hard surface of his desk, angrily buzzing as if a giant wasp was trapped inside.
    He dragged his eyes away from the latest statement. It was the usual story. The owner of the Porsche had gone to bed, enjoyed a good night's sleep, got up, had breakfast, gone to pick up the car keys from their customary place on the hallway table and discovered they weren't there. After searching his coat, briefcase and the kitchen, he presumed he had somehow left them in the car. He unlocked the front door and found his driveway was empty.
    That was the sixteenth this month in the south Manchester area. Somewhere a load of thieving little scumbags were getting very wealthy.
    He picked up his phone. 'Jon Spicer here.'
    'Jon, it's Tom Benwell. Are you OK to talk?'
    'Tom! Yeah, I'm just finishing off some paperwork. As usual. How are you?'
    'Good. A bit busy preparing for the Games, but can't complain. How's things? Caught any bad guys lately?'
    'Oh, you know. As fast as we catch them the courts let them out. Still, it keeps me busy.'
    Tom chuckled. 'Listen, I've got tickets for the Cheshire Sevens this Sunday at Sale. Seats in the corporate box, free beer and sandwiches. You up for it?'
    'Mate, you've just made typing out this witness statement far more enjoyable. What time?'
    'Eleven fifteen at the main gates, if you like.'
    'OK, I'll see you there. Thanks for the offer.'
     
    *
    Sunday morning and Jon joined a throng of people moving through the narrow residential roads towards Sale Rugby Club's ground. He caught snatches of the conversations going on around him, mostly about whether Sale would move into Manchester City's old stadium when the football club took over the Commonwealth Games stadium once the competition ended.
    As the flow of people carried him towards the entrance, his eyes were drawn to the man casually leaning against one of the gateposts. Stepping across to him, Jon smiled. 'Thanks for the invite, mate. How are you?'
    He looked down a good five inches into the other man's face and noticed the dark smudges under his friend's eyes.
    Tom Benwell smiled crookedly and said, 'Hey – you know. Surviving. You're looking horribly fit as usual. Do you coppers do anything else but work out in the gym?'
    'That and the odd crossword sat at our desks. How about you? Still having to take clients out to all the best restaurants round town?'
    Tom accepted the riposte with a grin. 'Yeah, that and swanning around in my company car.'
    'What are you driving nowadays?'
    'Audi TT.'
    Jon shook his head. 'Nice. 'Then the thought struck him. 'Don't leave the keys on that table in your front hall. I'm working on a case at the moment where some little scrotes are hooking them through letterboxes and nicking the car.'
    'Seriously? What with? A fishing rod?'
    'Lengths of garden cane with a hook on the end. A couple have been left in people's front gardens. Thing is, some insurers are claiming that, because the car has been opened up and driven off with the keys, they don't have to pay out. And high-performance