He’d never get rich that way but he made four pounds – enough for a heroin wrap or a few tueys; or some bush, bute, bhang, boy, blow, Bolivian or B-bombs to see him through the day. I ticked the report and slid it into my You’ll be Lucky tray. I was reading the list of overnight car thefts when there was a knock at the door of my partitioned-off domain in the corner of the CID office and big Dave “Sparky” Sparkington walked in. He’s a DC and my best pal. “It looks lovely out,” he announced. “Well leave it out, then,” I told him. We’d lost a Fiesta XR3 and an elderly Montego to enemy action. Both crashed and burned, both somebody’s pride and joy. Two more people would be braving the rigors of public transport this morning, or arranging for neighbours to take the kids to school and grandma to her appointment at the hospital, while they sorted the insurance. “Somebody mugged a Big Issue seller,”
