Now this was more like it. Houses, shops, streets, gardens. No barbed wire fences, cowshit or railway embankments here. Even now it made him break out in a cold sweat when he remembered being chased by that mad farmer and that crazy female cop. Detective Inspector Hillary Greene. Since she’d chased him, almost into the path of an oncoming train, Gregory had been learning all about DI Greene, and what he’d learned hadn’t exactly filled him with joy and inner serenity. Word had it, around those in the know, that she had a good nose on her and all the leniency of a pit bull on downers. And a good copper’s nose was the last thing he wanted poking around in his business – especially now that he’d finally struck paydirt. He slid his lanky frame out of his rusting second-hand Volvo, and once again checked out the house. The first time he’d come here, nearly three months ago now, he hadn’t paid it all that much attention, except to ascertain that anyone living here could afford to pay for his services.
