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Bury.
    He was back on home turf. Disposing of the body and dealing with the aftermath would now be a simple matter.
    Lynch relaxed. Control had reverted to him.

Four
    H enry Christie knew a large number of criminals. He had been a cop over twenty-five years and had worked right across the county of Lancashire, east, west, north and south, though the majority of his latter service had been on the Fylde coast around Blackpool or at headquarters in various departments. Over that time he had come to know and deal with petty thieves and drug barons, drunks and murderers. He had put many of them away, never having tired of the process, nor the feeling of elation to see a bad guy get his comeuppance.
    He had known the Costain family who lived on the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool for many years. They had been a thorn in the side of the police ever since they had landed from God knew where in the sixties and taken up residence. They were born troublemakers and law breakers and had established themselves as burglars, handlers of stolen property, loan sharks and protection racketeers, and, as Henry knew, more recently as drug dealers.
    They were never an easy family to deal with. He did not know of one occasion when the police hadn’t been given a rough ride by them – even when one of the Costain brothers had been murdered and Henry had solved the case. They still hated Henry with a vengeance because they were unable to make themselves see the police as anything other than the enemy.
    Not that Henry gave a stuff. A jousting match with the Costain clan was always a bit of a wheeze . . . and he always had an ace up his sleeve when dealing with them.
    Driving on to the Shoreside Estate brought back myriad memories for Henry, some minor, some major – such as the racially fuelled riot (caused by the Costains) he had once quelled; he drove on past a row of derelict shops, all now burnt out and dilapidated, never to be resurrected. The local hooligans had systematically destroyed them and all the shopkeepers had been driven off the estate, ensuring that law-abiding residents no longer had local services. It was now a car or bus journey to the local supermarket, though even the bus service to the estate had been severely curtailed. Too many drivers had been attacked and injured, too many buses had been trashed.
    Some people on the estate seemed intent on making it even more depraved than ever. Its future, Henry thought, was bleak.
    Even cops had to tread carefully. It wasn’t quite a no-go zone, but it wasn’t far off.
    If the millions of tourists who poured annually into the resort only knew about the crime-ridden, poverty-stricken hinterland just behind the tacky, money-driven seafront, Henry thought . . . then smirked . . . they wouldn’t give a monkey’s.
    He drove slowly along a debris-strewn avenue, no streetlights working (all smashed), and pulled to a halt behind another car. The occupant of this one climbed out and walked back to Henry, who lowered his window. It was the on-call detective sergeant, Rik Dean.
    â€˜Hi, boss,’ said the tired-looking sergeant, groggy from recent sleep.
    â€˜Rik,’ Henry acknowledged him. He knew Dean well, had been instrumental in getting him on to CID in the first place. Dean was a good thief-taker, had an instinct second to none. ‘You know the score, pal?’
    Dean nodded. ‘How are we going to handle it?’
    Henry rubbed his fatigued face. It felt leathery and harsh. ‘Well, the Costains are never easy. How the hell they’re going to react to the knowledge that Renata’s dead and Roy killed her, I dunno.’
    â€˜Blame the cops?’ Dean suggested.
    â€˜Mmm, quite possibly.’ Henry’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Always a good option.’
    â€˜Shall we go in one car?’
    Henry shook his head. ‘Take both. If we leave one here it’s more than likely to be a wheel-less shell when we get