THE HAVEN ‘A witch, Guv?’ They have turned into a narrow truncated street that appears sheared off to the sky. It can only be an optical illusion, caused by the upward slope, and a cliff top. Indeed this is Whitehaven, northern England’s most westerly outpost, perched on the edge of the Irish...
But at this moment the mobile phone mounted upon the dashboard lights up to indicate an incoming email. DS Leyton stoically tosses the suit into the back seat and takes up the handset. ‘From the school, Guv – it’ll be the photo and the boy’s personnel file.’ Skelgill, however, is already distrac...
DS JONES CALLS – Thursday evening Skelgill is inexpertly arranging his damp hair, squinting critically into the film of dust that coats a little-used vanity mirror. From amongst the jumble of clothes on his bed his mobile rings. Naked, and rather pale but for his head, neck and forearms, he b...
‘Alright, Guvnor – how’d you get on up north?’ Skelgill gives a non-committal shrug. ‘Aye, well – they let me back into England without a passport.’ DS Leyton makes a disapproving grunt. ‘That’d be all we need, Guv – criminals would have a field day if there was an international border thirty m...
TWITCHING It is Saturday, 5:20 a.m. Like a fox that has gone to earth, Grendon Smith emerges hesitantly from the unhinged communal door of his apartment block and stops to sniff the early morning air. He carries in one hand a smart black leather holdall, and on his back a small and rather wor...