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terraced house. The driver stayed behind the wheel. He did not sound the horn, just waited with the engine ticking over smoothly. He was not being paid to do anything else.
    The three men left the house quietly, walked smartly across the back yard, through the gate and climbed quickly into the back of the van. Ray banged the side of the van and the driver let out the clutch gently and drove away.
    A couple of minutes later another vehicle arrived at the back of the house. The man driving it parked in the alley, let himself into the house and collected the three bags of clothes which had been left in the front bedroom. He carried them to the car and threw them into the boot.
    Before leaving he checked the house was locked and secure. It would not be used again.
    â€˜Let’s assume that JJ and Carrie were at the flat,’ Henry said. He was sitting on a low wall some distance away from the block, Rik Dean next to him. Both were sitting on their hands like little lads. They were going through the hypothesis stage of the enquiry, that stage when there were few facts available to them beyond a scene of crime as yet unexamined, and two bodies, neither of which had been post-mortemed. ‘So they have a barney, JJ kills her and then, in remorse leaps to his own death from the window . . . and just by accident, the flat catches fire from a discarded fag.’
    They pondered this for a while before turning to each other and going, ‘Naaah!’ simultaneously.
    â€˜I’ve known JJ for a long time and he’s really nothing more than a sad old junkie who wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s been knocking around with Carrie for donkey’s years. They doted on each other in a sort of hippyfied way. I know that anyone is capable of murder, but I can’t see him whacking her, but I could be wrong. It just doesn’t seem to fit.’
    â€˜Unless someone else did it and pushed him out of the window,’ Rik Dean suggested.
    â€˜I like that. It’s something we must bear in mind. Let’s see how the PMs pan out tonight, but in the meantime let’s be making some enquiries into JJ’s current lifestyle. See what he’s been up to recently.’
    The next stage of the mission found the three men arriving at a large garage premises on the periphery of an industrial estate on the outskirts of Bispham, just north of Blackpool. The doors were already wide open and the van was driven in.
    Here, they de-bussed with all their gear and transferred it to another vehicle which was waiting for them in the garage. It was a Golf GTi, stolen a couple of weeks earlier from south Manchester, given a new paint job and a set of number plates referring to a clean GTi owned by some poor soul in Derbyshire. Just enough work had been done on it to keep any inquisitive cop at bay for a few minutes at least. It had been stolen for a particular purpose and after today would be delivered to a scrap yard in Rossendale to be crushed into a square no bigger than a cardboard box.
    Crazy slid into the driver’s seat. He was the wheelman and wanted to get comfortable. He was wearing his latex gloves, pulled tight over his fingers, as were the other two. This would ensure that no prints belonging to them would be found in the car should the police somehow get to it before it became a cube of crushed metal. None of the men had been in physical contact with the car before today.
    The garage owner, who ran a profitable sideline ‘ringing’ stolen cars, gave Crazy the thumbs up and said, ‘It’s a beast, this motor. It won’t let you down.’
    Crazy nodded.
    â€˜Better fuckin’ not,’ murmured Marty loud enough for the man to hear. He got into the back seat.
    Ray retreated to the far end of the garage, out of hearing, his mobile pressed to his ear. He had a brusque conversation, which ended as he slid his phone into his overall pocket and looked across at the others.
    â€˜It’s still