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where he’d been, who he’d spoken to, what he’d said and let slip, and from that, working out where he was now. In other words, plain old-fashioned detective work. Talking to people, putting two and two together.
    Henry’s musings were interrupted by a figure at the office door.
    He regarded the man suspiciously.
    â€˜You still here, Henry?’
    Henry’s eyes went into slitty mode. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜I heard you’d been seconded to some elite crime-fighting team.’
    Chortling back a guffaw, Henry uttered, ‘What?’
    The man – it was Chief Inspector Andy Laker – shrugged and said, ‘Whatever.’
    â€˜What can I do for you, Andy? The comms room is way over there somewhere, isn’t it?’
    â€˜I’m stepping into the breach.’
    â€˜What breach would that be?’
    â€˜The one opened by your move.’
    Then it dawned on Henry. ‘You’re the one who’s replacing me here?’ He pointed down at his seat and his hands flapped at the office.
    â€˜The penny drops.’
    â€˜You really have upset someone – the chief’s bag carrier, to comms and then to this!’
    â€˜The chief chose me personally.’ He sounded offended.
    â€˜And I thought you had a career in front of you,’ Henry said amused. ‘How wrong I was.’
    â€˜I’m taking over something that hasn’t been working well.’ Laker turned and regarded the larger Special Projects Office disdainfully, then turned back to Henry. ‘They wanted a mover and shaker in here, apparently.’
    â€˜And who would that be?’ Henry asked mischievously.
    Laker bristled. He reddened up from the neck and his shoulders rolled.
    Henry collected the three files in front of him, logged out of the computer, picked up the framed photograph of Kate and the girls and stood up. He walked slowly across to Laker, who shrank away from him.
    â€˜That was your induction,’ Henry said. ‘That’s the in-tray, pending and out-tray … I’m sure you’ll be able to work out the rest for yourself, being so smart.’
    â€˜Uh – what?’
    Brushing ignorantly past the smaller man, Henry closed his ears to the babbling and, now office-and-desk-less, he clutched the files and his meagre personal possessions and walked upright and erect out of the Special Projects Office without a backwards glance.

FIVE
    T here was something about the whole Downie saga that made Henry believe it would be a relatively easy task to track him down. A quick win, one out of three, a tick in the box. The hard bit would be physically getting hold of the big bastard and getting him into a police cell. Not an encounter Henry relished, but something he would have to deal with. He was only just getting over the pounding he’d had on the back streets of Preston.
    He had looked at the file repeatedly and wondered how best to approach it and eventually decided he would kick the enquiry off in Rochdale, the last place Downie had come into contact with the cops, by visiting the family he had befriended and then stolen from. He had thought of speaking to a couple of Downie’s more recent victims from two attacks in Blackpool and one in Leyland. From all accounts, though, these people were still traumatized.
    Unusually for Henry he made an appointment. He preferred to drop in on folk unexpectedly and catch them on the back foot, but because of the rising fuel costs and the possibility of a wasted journey, he made the call instead.
    He cleared his throat and looked at the family, mother, father, gay son.
    They were in the living room of their terraced house in Rochdale, close to its border with Whitworth, which was in Lancashire.
    â€˜You found the bastard yet?’ the father demanded. He was a gruff, no-nonsense working-class man struggling with the concept of having a gay son. He continually shot dagger-like glances at