Phil Mcphee had done a runner. He could hear voices down the gravelled pathway—commotion, an old woman kicking up a fuss. He knew the police would be down there, and no doubt up here soon, too.The wind blew his greasy fringe up so that it tapped his wrinkly forehead. He took a few steps back towards the road, away from the towering church, still not totally focused.Darren Anderson had paid Phil Mcphee £16,120 to steal an executioner’s sword from Leeds Royal Armouries.As Brian sped up his walk, keeping his head low so that hopefully no one would pay any attention, the little niggling clues of the case began to click together in his mind. Darren Anderson was the only survivor of the Pendle Hill massacre. If that wasn’t enough of a giveaway as it was, then there was his reluctance for his face to be shown in the newspaper. He must’ve known that people like Phil Mcphee had a chance of identifying him otherwise.He turned onto the street. An old woman with skin as tough and hard as a rhinoceros, and a big beak of a nose, peered at him as she leaned on her walking frame.
