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wipers trudging manfully against the deluge that was like buckets of water being thrown repeatedly over the car. A strong wind was also getting up.
    Henry glanced surreptitiously at his passenger – just as she was doing the same at the driver. Both shuffled uncomfortably as their eyes locked briefly.
    â€˜You’re a superintendent now?’ O’Connell said. Henry nodded. ‘Well done. Last time we met I remember you being unceremoniously dumped off an investigation – the Asian woman who’d been set alight.’
    Henry swallowed at the memory. Not one of the highlights of his topsy-turvy career.
    â€˜Dave Anger, wasn’t it?’ O’Connell went on. ‘Your boss at the time? He’d got it in for you. Your nemesis, I think you called him.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ Henry growled and added creepily, ‘but vengeance was mine.’ He raised his eyebrows.
    â€˜And we went out for a drink.’
    â€˜Mm – and I blew it, as I recall.’ So she did remember. He squirmed.
    â€˜You did, rather. All me, me, me.’
    â€˜C’est la me,’ he shrugged. They’d reached the outskirts of Shoreside. He drove to the front of the shop parade and pulled up. There was a lot of police activity.
    â€˜And I was in a relationship then, and you were, and then I wasn’t, and you were . . . and then I wasn’t . . .’ Her voice dried up and he yanked up the handbrake. She gulped. ‘Still not,’ she said and gave Henry a meaningful look.
    â€˜Just my luck,’ Henry said. He paused, sighed, then clambered out into the rain again. He was almost thankful for the drenching which had the instantaneous effect of dousing his easily aroused ardour. Just the thought of what might have been had been enough to trigger numerous snapshots in his mind’s eye of the ways in which a pretty female pathologist might be naughty. He tugged his hood over his head, banished the images, and dashed over to Alex Bent, who, having made to the scene ahead of him, was waiting under the awning that covered the walkway in front of the shops.
    O’Connell was right behind, having flicked open her mini-umbrella. She also carried a medical kit with her.
    The trio made their way to the rear of the shop parade – although the term parade was a bit of a euphemism. The only two shops left on the block were the chippy and a newsagent. The others – formerly a hairdresser, bakery and launderette – had closed, were ‘steeled’ up, rather than boarded, victims of the credit crunch and the encroachment of vandalism and intimidation from Shoreside yobs.
    Henry’s face ticked uncomfortably with the memory of the last serious incident he’d dealt with on the tract of ground behind the shops, which was part car park, part rubble heap, part fly tip. A wild young man had been stabbed to death in a gang feud, a case that not reached a satisfactory conclusion.
    Henry had lost count of the number of crimes committed in this area. This no-man’s land between civilization and the jungle that was the Shoreside estate. People crossed it at their peril, night or day, to get from the shops to Song Thrush Way. And that did not include the incidents that had taken place in the alley itself. Gangs congregated and sorted out their differences, drug deals were done, rapists and flashers lurked, robbers waited, hiding patiently for their next victim . . . and occasionally, people were murdered. Henry was very much aware of the local name for the alley.
    It was such a hot spot that it had the unusual honour of having its own incident location ID in the police logging system. Unusual because most incident locations related to large areas, such as council wards, not mini-no-go areas. Recognizing the problems, the police were constantly badgering the council to get their finger out, but lack of money and willpower were big issues.
    â€˜Looks like he was crossing