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according to the rules. Well, it was an approach that held precious little interest for him.
    How could it, given that his sexual preferences made him a criminal in the eyes of the law.
    The car pulled away and Peterson turned from the window. The room was dull and silent without the light and sound from the telly. He switched it back on and lowered himself into his chair, but soon his thoughts returned to the night of the attack. That little git with the crowbar. How the hell had he tracked him down? And what was his name? He couldn't remember, there had been so many like him over the years – sallow complexion, smattering of acne, pathetic attempt at stubble. Hardly the bronzed and beautiful boys of his dreams. Still, you took what you could get, even if it was some skinny-arsed little weasel so defeated by life he had given up trying to control what happened to him.
    That's what confused him. In his time working at the care home, he'd been careful to pick out the ones he sensed would keep their mouths shut. The ones with a numbness in their eyes, who no longer questioned what authority dictated. Often, when he got them on their own, the ease of their submission surprised him. He came to realise that these were the lads who had been through it all before. Uncles, older brothers, babysitters’ boyfriends – someone else had broken them in, making everything so much easier for him.
    But this one had obviously decided to fight back, even if it was after a delay of several years. Peterson stared at the floor, weighing up the situation he was now in. He'd taught the lad a lesson all right. After disarming his attacker, he'd used a restraining hold he'd learned at the care home to bend the lad over. Of course he was wearing a shell suit, so yanking his trousers down had been easy. Then, as he worked him with the metal bar, he'd explained once again all about the need for not getting any stupid ideas. By the time he'd finished, the lad was a sobbing mess, humiliated and broken once again. He would never talk, shame would see to that.
    But the other man in the car park was a different matter. How much had the bumbling idiot seen? Peterson thought he'd fled as soon as the lad had appeared with the iron bar, but perhaps he'd watched for a bit before running to his car and ringing the bloody police. Had the name of the care home come out? He'd certainly not mentioned it and, as far as he could remember, the lad hadn't either. As long as the witness didn't come forward, all the police had was his car registration, and that was it. Even if they somehow traced the lad, what could happen? There was no way he could prove anything about what had gone on all those years ago.
    Peterson jabbed the off button on the remote and flung the control on to the sofa. He'd never got his blow job the other night and he was pent-up with frustration. Listlessly, he climbed the stairs and turned the computer on in his bedroom. From his favourites list, he logged on to the appropriate site and went into the forum room to see if there was any local action being arranged for later on.
    Some general stuff about the police being at Silburn Grove car park. From the postings, it sounded like they were talking about the copper who'd just been sitting in his front room. Nosey big bastard. Peterson scanned the comments, stopping at a suggestion to use a nearby car park instead. Someone said he'd be going there tonight and another had immediately replied that he'd be there too.
    Peterson added his own comment then logged onto streetmap.co.uk to find out exactly where Daisy Nook Country Park was.

Five
    Jon had just sat down with a cup of coffee when Rick walked through the door, eyes sweeping the room before settling at Jon's raised hand. As he started to cross the room Jon took in his trendy suit and fashionably messed-up hair. There was a take-out cup from some flashy coffee bar in his hand. 'Still drinking that frothy shit with chocolate powder on the