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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.
    â€˜There’s nowt to see now,’ Rory said.
    â€˜We saw it all anyway,’ Mark said.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Mark whined.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Fire away.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜Dog shit – right up by that wall.’
    â€˜Dog shit,’ Henry said.
    â€˜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