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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.
    â€˜There’s been an incident on the road at the far end and this is now part of a crime scene – so go away.’
    â€˜What happened?’ Rory asked. ‘Is someone dead?’
    â€˜Why would you ask that?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What’s happening?’ Rory asked someone.
    â€˜Bad accident,’ a man said.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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