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him thoughtfully. ‘OK.’
    â€˜And, look, don’t be frightened to call in if anything else happens. In fact, you must.’
    She shrugged.
    â€˜I’ll come back soon and we’ll sit down to get a statement, OK?’
    Another unconvinced shrug.
    His mind churning, Henry drove away. He headed straight back to the police station, where he made his way up to the DI’s office, the door of which was closed.
    He was glad of this. It gave time for one more run through things. He would have liked to have stormed in, but he reigned in his innate hot-headedness, knowing that such action would be counterproductive. He still wanted to be a detective and upsetting another DI was not the way to go about it because if the CID didn’t like you, you didn’t get in.
    He tapped on the door.
    And waited.
    He’d heard that Fanshaw-Bayley never answered a knock on the door straight away. He was a ‘One, two, three, four, someone’s knocking at the door; five, six, seven, eight, I think I’ll make ’em wait’ kind of boss. So Henry counted and as predicted the ‘Enter’ order came and he stepped inside Fanshaw-Bayley’s den.
    He was sitting at the desk, looking at some paperwork. He did not even glance up, but gestured with a ripple of his fingers for whoever it was to take a seat. He signed the bottom of a report with a flourish of his fancy fountain pen – an affected trademark – which he then laid down with a hint of ceremony, and only then raised his eyes to Henry.
    â€˜Thought it would be you.’
    â€˜
Thought right, didn’t you?
’ Henry almost retorted, but didn’t snap. He knew he was on precarious ground, had to tread carefully, so he just nodded affably, remembering how nasty the DI had been earlier.
    â€˜I’d just like to know why Kaminski walked, that’s all.’
    â€˜The trouble with the uniform branch is that they’re too … touchy-feely … always wanting explanations and reasons … Those days may come, PC Christie, but not today, which is why you should simply accept what I tell you. He walks, end of story.’
    Henry felt his heart rate increase dramatically. Fanshaw-Bayley was beginning to have that effect on him.
    â€˜You want to be a jack, don’t you?’
    â€˜Y-yes, that’s all I want.’
    â€˜Then learn to take orders, lad, and learn something from this. Man up, is what I say.’
    â€˜And I learn what?’
    â€˜That you have to schmooze and weave.’ The DI began to move in his chair like a huge fat snake being charmed. ‘That sometimes you have to let things go, that it isn’t all black and white … That the world of crime and villains is a murky fucking place and as a detective you occasionally have to chew on your principles and sometimes they’re like swallowing a brick.’
    â€˜She was raped.’
    â€˜Quite probably,’ Fanshaw-Bayley said blandly.
    â€˜That seems pretty black and white to me, and even if she eventually decides not to go through with a prosecution, we should at least go through the motions with Kaminski. Send him a warning shot across the bows at least. Grind him.’
    Undaunted, the DI said, ‘And sometimes the bigger picture is more important than the suffering, albeit self-inflicted, of a slag like Sally Lee, PC Christie.’
    Henry stood up. ‘Fuck the bigger picture,’ he snarled and stalked out of the office before he hurled his chair at Fanshaw-Bayley.

THREE
    T he Vauxhall Cavalier wasn’t the fastest or sleekest of cars but it was possible to coax a decent enough turn of speed out of it when the accelerator pedal was floored gradually, the engine sweet-talked slowly through the gears.
    Furious at his encounter with the unwavering DI, Henry headed for the Rawtenstall bypass. This was the dual carriageway that bore due south out of Rawtenstall and eventually became the M66 at Bury.
    He