

## 'I am now a have, but was once a have not.'

Sitting back at my desk, dunking the cookies into a nice cuppa char.

I tell myself I'll only eat two, and save the third for later. But now I've started I can't stop myself.

I just bloody love 'em!

Every so often, I've been getting this faint whiff of a burning smell.

It comes and goes from time to time, and now it's really starting to irritate me.

I think it might be the electrics or something?

Mind you, this place is 120 years old. And believe me, it's really showing its age!

It's bastard freezing in the winter and too fucking hot in the summer.

It'll be a good fucking job when they close it down!

Which might not be as far away as some people seem to think.

A nice fire ripping through the place sometime in the next few weeks might be just what the Doctor ordered.

And hopefully it'll do us all a favour, and take a few of the smug cunts who work here with it.

I've not said anything to anyone about it though....yet.

Halfway through the second cookie I see Dan coming towards me.

"Wotcha geezer?" he greets me like he used to back in the old days, then sits on the edge of my desk.

"I'm just grabbing something to eat while I can." I say, chomping another soggy morsel.

"Tell me about it, I'm absolutely starving! Here, the canteen grub ain't up to much here is it...." he fakes a gag and then laughs. "They look nice though, John." he adds, eyeballing my last cookie.

I can feel his proverbial elbow digging into my ribs.

I cram the rest of the second cookie into my mouth, and I can't believe I'm about to say this but here goes;

"Do you want it Dan?" I spit crumbs all over the desk and pray that it puts him right off.

I really hope he says; _'No thanks mate.'_

"Yeah alright." he replies without hesitation, and before I know it, he's picked it up and is sticking it into his gob.

I screw up the paper bag and hide my vexation behind a forced smile.

I brush away the crumbs and finish off my cuppa, making sure I get all the biscuit sludge out the bottom of the mug, before he sees it and wants that n'all.

"Here, I heard you had a busy one last night?"

"Yeah, some arsehole got shot on the Hillman housing estate. They wanted me to go and have a look, see if I could put any names in the frame."

"And?" he asks, then takes a dainty bite of the cookie.

"Fucking hell, it could be just about anyone in that fucking jungle! My guess is its territorial, not drugs."

His whole demeanour changes, from jovial to that of sanctimonious disapproval.

"You know I can never understand why these youngsters kill each other just over what postcode they live in. Its beyond me, it really is?"

SHUT UP YOU SILLY CUNT.......

"I mean, we was happy enough just climbing trees and swimming in the canal at their age, ay John?"

I nod and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Can you smell burning?" I ask, catching the scent again.

Dan distends his nostrils and pulls in some air.

"No I can't."

"Are you sure?" I ask again, licking the air like a lizard.

"Yeah I'm positive," he affirms. ""It's probably all that smoking you do John. Your that use to having a cigarette under your nose your starting to smell it all the time now!"

I stand up, get right in his face and scream;

"JUST FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE WILL YA!!"

Except I don't, because I'm still sitting in my chair.

But it felt real.

Although it wasn't, but it did feel like it was.

"You should really think about cutting down mate."

I'd like to cut you down.......mate.......

"No that's not it." I say, and this time I do get up to try and pin point where the smell is coming from.

I walk around the office asking everyone else if they can smell the burning, but they all say no.

It's really starting to get to me now, I can't concentrate on anything else.

But just then, in a moment of existential clarity I realise how crazy I must look.

Strutting around the office, like a rooster with a sore head, scratching in the dirt for a worm.

I look back at Dan and smile.

He's still sitting on the edge of my desk, but he's now wearing a confused _quasi_ concerned expression.

I walk over to the nearest open window and shut it, then go back to my seat.

"Sorry about that. You can't be too careful can ya? We don't want the whole place going up in flames now, do we?"

I do.......

"Okay, are you sure your alright John?"

"Yeah I'm good, I'm good. Must be that dick head over the back burning tyres again. I should really get the environmental health on to him shouldn't I?" I chuckle nervously. "It just effects my concentration that's all."

"Well if your sure....anyway I need to talk to you about the search I conducted at Paulina Gomolski's house,"

His eyes scan the floor and then the bastard throws the rest of **MY** cookie into the waste paper basket beside my desk.

What the fuck is he playing at?

He's only had a bastard nibble of it....there's over three quarters left.

"We found emails on a computer in her bedroom that relate to an escort agency, whose office is located right here in Birmingham,"

I mean he could have given it back to me for fuck sake! And I would have finished it off!

"She signed up with them about three weeks ago. It's not exactly high end, and they don't seem to be too picky about which girls they take on. I've had a look at the profile photos and there pretty amateurish. Most of them are Eastern European and are modelling in bikinis. But if the Bin man booked her through the website we might be able to trace his IP Address all the way back to the very computer he used?"

I might wait until he's gone and take it out of the bin?

Waste not want not.......

It's not like he's got something I haven't. Although I've definitely got something that he ain't!

Quite a few things actually.......

He's waiting for me to speak, but I've missed most of what he was telling me and I don't really know what he expects me to say?

So I decide to go for the generic answer, thinking; _'That would be an ecumenical matter.'_

"Great! So what do you want me to do then?"

"This business is registered to a man named Harold Micklewhite. You ever heard of him?"

I pout my lips and shake my head.

"I need you to take me there, show me where it is."

"Well what's the address?" he shows me. "That's only just down the road Dan! You could walk there from here. Ain't you got them....what's it called maps on your mobile phone?"

"No John. I want you to come with me to see this prick," he leans in closer. "Just between you and me, I ain't got the warrant yet. But I'll be fucked if I'm going to just sit here and wait around for it! Not when we've got something this good to work with, ay?"

I decide I'll drive him there.

In the car I spark a ciggy.

Dan coughs and winds down his window.

Out of Steelhouse Lane,

Right onto Colmore Circus Queensway,

Past Lloyd house,

West Midlands Police HQ. Where all the big dicks hang out.

Turn right onto Snow Hill Queensway,

Take the first exit at St Chad's Circus roundabout and merge onto the A38,

Keep left onto Great Charles Street Queensway,

Past the Central Library,

Take the 3rd exit at Paradise Circus Queensway roundabout onto the A457,

Continue along the A457,

Then a left on to Lower Vaughn Street.

Ten minutes on a good day, but it's taken us more like twenty today with all this traffic.

I pull up outside the address and we find more than we had expected.

It's not just an obscure office tucked away at the back of some old crumbling building. But a full blown strip club with all the bells and whistles.

And nipple tassels.......

How the fuck do I not know about this place?

We get out the car and walk up to the door.

The club don't open until seven and it's only early afternoon now, but Dan reckons there's a good chance someone is already in there.

He presses the buzzer embedded into the wall next to the door and we wait.

Half a minute later there is no response.

Dan presses the buzzer again, this time keeping his finger on it for about twenty seconds.

Another sexagesimal later and still nothing.

"What shall we do then?" he asks, as if this was my idea and I've already worked it all out.

"You'll have to get a number and phone him, arrange a meeting with him for tomorrow. At least you know where it is now."

So you won't be needing me anymore then.......will ya.......

"No, I can't wait. We can come back later ay? When it's open?"

"I don't know Dan, I ain't right happy about that!"

CUNT.......CUNT.......CUNT.......CUNT.......

"Why not? We get to see some birds, and hopefully we get some answers as well! Everyone's a winner."

CUNT.......CUNT.......CUNT.......CUNT.......

The last thing I want to be doing tonight is watching a load of plastic women gyrating around for a bunch of pissed up arseholes, who are wearing way too much Burberry,

And sad tossers in full length Macs,

And yuppie wannabes in red braces and French cuffs!

"I've got a lot to do Dan ya know. Purnell's chewing my Aris off to clean up this unsolved case....I need to get back to working on it! And I'm still trying to get my hands on them files from Stoke for ya!"

"I understand where your coming from John....but look, this'll be the last time I ask ya to help me while I'm down here. I promise ya."

I don't know why, but I find it really hard to say no to him.

You're the cunt.......you cunt.......cunt.......cunt.......

It's like he's got some sort of hold over me.

I think about it for a second or two and on reflection, I decide it might be best just to do this one last thing to get him out of my way for good.

There is a better way.......

I mean to say, if I was to arrest someone for the Longsdale murder just a day after the Chief Super has bollocked me for dragging my feet....well that might look a tad suspicious, mightn't it?

At least this way I get a bit more time to figure things out and make it look more convincing.

"Alright. But after this I really can't do anymore for ya Dan."

"That's fine John, I swear. Cross my heart."

He crosses his heart, and my eyes run an imaginary blade across his throat.

We walk away, but turn back around when we hear the club door opening.

A dozy looking middle aged woman wearing a pair of marigold gloves, and a blue chequered tabard stands in the doorway.

She's holding a damp cloth in her right hand, which she's probably been using to wipe the snail trails off of the poles.

I can't help thinking they're missing a chance to make themselves a few extra quid here.

I mean really, they could charge the punters for cleaning the poles for 'em! Some of the manky arseholes'd love that....

Dan jogs back across the road to talk to her and I continue on to the car.

While he's distracted I have a couple of quick sniffs, then light a ciggy, close my eyes and rest my head on the headrest.

_Why do you do it to yourself......._ _WHY_ _......._

Before I finish work for the night I meet Webb, for the handover of Burkey's phone.

She's been waiting for me in a dark, damp corner of the ground floor locker room for almost a quarter of an hour by the time I get there.

"You took your time!" she whines.

"How was it?" I ask.

"Easy enough I suppose. Just make sure I get it back quickly."

"I will, don't you worry."

I slip it into my coat and we agree to leave separately.

I do the gentlemanly thing and let her go first, while I check the open lockers to see if anyone has accidentally left anything behind.

Then, a few minutes later I leave. Empty handed.

When I get home I mow the lawns, back and front.

Because, although the inside of the house is not the tidiest, I always like to keep the outside looking respectable.

I even respond to the next door neighbour when he says hello to me over the garden fence.

But I stop well short of getting involved in any sort of conversation with him.

Then I put out the rubbish bin and the recycling boxes, ready for collection tomorrow morning.

I make sure the lids on the boxes are pressed down tightly, so that no one in the street can see all the empty booze bottles inside and start gossiping about my drinking habits.

To everyone else I'm just a respectable, hard working single man.

The most eligible of all bachelors.

They've never seen any of the women I've bought back here either.

Or seen them leave.......

Whether they've guessed what I do for a living or not I'm not too sure, and I've certainly never spoken to any of them for long enough to tell 'em.

They probably think you're a gay.......

I've lived here for three years now.

When I first came to the West Midlands I took a small, 2 bedroom terraced house in a place called Smethwick.

But I soon wanted out of there....fucking shithole!!

I told the letting agent to find me somewhere else and that's when he told me about this place in Birmingham.

Semi-detached with 4 bedrooms, 2 of 'em en suite.

Sure it's way too big for my needs and quite expensive, but I can afford it.

Besides, its closer to work.

And when all is said and done, I'd pay just about anything to be in a nice quiet clean area, free from DSS arseholes!

It's too exclusive around here for them sort of scumbags.

But I bet some of my respectable looking neighbours are just as filthy behind closed doors.

I mean, I can't see what's in everyone else's bins and recycling boxes now can I?

Some of them might be even worse than mine....although somehow, I very much doubt it!

When I go back inside the house I chuck a frozen vindaloo into the microwave and go upstairs for a shower.

I dry myself off in my bedroom, while watching her from over the road pull up onto her drive and unload her weekly shopping from Waitrose.

I wonder how dirty she gets behind her bedroom door?

She's got four kids anyway, so she obviously enjoys a good shafting!

My cocks gone well hard at the thought of her naked body, but I don't touch it.

I go back downstairs in the bathrobe I half-inched from the Waldorf hotel, Paris.

When we were there on our honeymoon.

I'd wanted to go to Rome, but she'd insisted on Paris.

The writing was on the wall.......

It's a bit frayed around the edges now, and one of the pockets has come off, but it still does its job. And I've never really seen the point of buying a new one.

It's warm and comfortable.

Just like my life back then.

I eat the curry in the dining room in silence, along with a bag of mini poppadoms and the quarter bottle of Grey Goose left over from the other night.

No glass.

Then back upstairs to get suited and booted.

Out the front door, straight into the car and off to pick up Dan....again!

I may as well be a fucking taxi driver!

Travis.......eat your heart out sunshine.......

Dan pays at the door.

At a sort of box office, like you'd get at the cinema.

£15 each, which includes two free drinks.

On the staircase down to the club I tell him we should have used our warrant cards to get in for free, but he says he doesn't want them to know we're Coppers.

"It might put them on edge and cause this Micklewhite to clam up on us. Besides, we're off duty, remember."

I'll play along with him....for now.

The first thing we see when we get to the bottom of the stairs is a fake titted bitch. Legs akimbo, sliding down a chrome pole to;

_Me & u_ by _Cassie_.

One of Laura's favourite songs.

Behind the silicone slut the place opens up.

The whole room is bathed in lurid red light and every wall is covered with polished mirrors.

It's a fucking narcissists dream.

And I find myself wondering, whether the dick heads who frequent these places spend more time admiring themselves in the mirrors than they do looking at the slut's?

There are leather chairs and sofas all around, a large bar and a raised stage at the back of the room. Where another rough looking bitch dances around another chrome pole.

"Come on, the old dear said we need to talk to a bloke named Joe." says Dan.

He leads the way and I follow, my stomach turning as I look at these false bitches.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a true red blooded man who could fuck any of these dirty cunts red raw! But one thing that I have never been able to understand is why men want to pay for sex? Or in this case, mere titillation?

Now your feminists cunts would argue that this type of thing is only degrading to the women....well half of 'em will anyway, while the other 50% will firmly believe that this offers some kind of empowerment to the bitches who do it for a living!

But, in my opinion, there is only one person being exploited here....the muppet who fucking pays for it!

That's why I've never been to a place like this before tonight and never will do ever again.

All these arseholes ( _And that includes Danny boy here, because I can see that he's really getting off on it!_ ) give independent men like me a bad name.

They're happy to live up to the stereotype of the lazy incompetent bastard, who's useless at doing anything without a woman's help or pestering.

Fucking stop it....

I can multi task,

I can change a babies nappy,

I can cook,

I can clean,

I can wash my own clothes,

I can Iron,

And I can do anything else that a woman can do, and do it just as good as she can....if not better!

Not to say that I particularly enjoy doing any of those things, but I can still do them never the less!

I can tell that Dan is one of those men that I detest, he probably needs his missus to do everything for him.

Just like his Mom used to do.

I mean, just look at how many times I've had to wipe his arse for him since he's been here!

I let him do all the talking, after all, this was his stupid idea. And I don't even want to be here anyway.

At the bar he asks me what I want to drink.

Straight away I've clocked that they've only got cheap vodka.

Glen's and Vladivar, both of which taste like shit to me.

Neither have they got any San Miguel, so I'll have to settle for a Corona extra.

Which I would normally try to swerve, but in this instance I've got no other choice.

I sit on one of the swivelling stools, rest my elbow on the bar and have another look around.

In the darker corners of the club I can see punters are getting some personal attention from a few of the bitches. Plenty of sweet talk and leg rubbing, before being lead away by the hand into private cubicles, behind black velvet curtains.

To be legitimately robbed of their self respect and money.

The barman places the uncapped Corona in front of me, then goes to stick a wedge of lime in the neck of the bottle.

I pick it up before he can do it and give him a look that is a million times more sour than the fruit in his hand.

However after the first swig I regret stopping him, a slice of lime might have made this piss a bit more palatable.

But I'm not going to admit I was wrong and ask for it now.

Never mind, I can make up for it when I get home.

There's an unopened bottle of Belvedere waiting for me in the kitchen cabinet.

Stop it.......you'll be dribbling in a minute.......

Dan has a Jameson with orange juice.

"It's alright in here ain't it?" he says turning to me.

I don't do or say anything at all.

"The fella behind the bar is going to give this Joe a call, he's the Assistant Manager apparently....bleeding 'ell John Look at her over there!"

Dan gives a whistle, which is immediately drowned out by the beat of;

_Sweaty_ by _Jodeci_.

I don't bother to look at the bitch, or say anything to him.

He wouldn't like the answer.......

I've already downed half the bottle of Corona when I make the decision that I don't want the rest.

We sit in silence, but it's not awkward.

Then, a tall man enters the club through a door in the wall signed; **PRIVATE**.

He looks over at the bar and the barman points to us.

The tall man approaches.

"Good evening gentlemen, my name's Joe. What can I do for you?" he asks.

Now Dan pulls out his warrant card.

"We'd like to see a Mr Harold Micklewhite. Is he here?"

Joe licks his dry lips and glances around uncomfortably.

"Put those away please, and follow me."

He takes us through the door in the wall, and then along a corridor with a green door at the far end.

He knocks on the door and we enter an office.

"Sorry to disturb you Mr Micklewhite, but these _POLICE_ officers are here to see you."

Harold Micklewhite is sitting behind a roll-top desk.

Weak chin, sparrow jawed. I'd lay him out with one good right hander!

Round one to me.

He stands up, and proffers us his hand.

Strong suit, Duchamp mohair. Killing my Paul Smith flannel stone dead!

Round two to him.

Dan shakes Micklewhite's hand.

Watch on left wrist, 18 karat gold Rolex Oyster with diamond bezel. Mines nothing special, just a 9 karat Rotary with a mother of pearl dial, on leather straps.

But at home I've got an 18 Karat gold Patek Philippe bracelet watch.

Call round three a draw.

I shake Micklewhite's hand, unwillingly.

Car keys on desk, Volvo key chain. Brand new, top of the range Volvo with all the optional extras about £50,000. An equivalent Audi RS5, 70k +!

Round four to me.

TKO victory!

"We're here to ask you some questions about one of your escorts Mr Micklewhite." says Dan.

"Yeah I know, Paulina Gomolski right." Micklewhite answers. "I was just reading about her in the newspaper."

"Why didn't you think to let us know what was going on Mr Micklewhite?"

"Well I didn't know what had happened to her until I heard her name on the six o'clock news last night."

"So what can you tell us about her that might help?"

"Nothing much. She only joined us a few weeks ago."

"We already know that! What can you tell us about who she met that night?"

"I've got no idea, we don't get personal with the punters. They call up, arrange an appointment and then pay the escort when they see them. We just take a monthly fee off the girls for being listed on our website. "

"Don't you have a membership database or something that captures the clients phone numbers."

Micklewhite shakes his head.

Dan's getting pissed off, screwing his hands into fists.

"Where did she meet this client? You must at least know that much?"

I look over my shoulder at the man named Joe, who is now standing by the office door, within easy reach of the concealed baseball bat that he thinks I haven't noticed.

"I couldn't tell you," says Micklewhite. "I don't have anything to do with that side of things."

"Then you won't mind telling us who does, will ya?"

"Look, the girls make all their own appointments we don't have anything to do with it. Now if you don't mind, this is bad for my business and I want nothing more to do with it!" he cuts his hand through the air, hoping to sever the conversation with it.

"Do you know the Policing and Crime Act of 2009, Mr Micklewhite?"

Dan's mounting his high horse again.

Micklewhite rolls his eyes and laughs.

"The Policing and Crime Act 2009 ( _c.26_ ), which came into operation on the 1st April 2010, states that it is illegal to pay for services from a prostitute whom a third person has subjected to force, threats, coercion or deception to perform those services."

"She offered herself of her own freewill!" says Micklewhite in a raised voice. "No one made her become an escort, nor forced her do anything that she didn't want to!"

"Well I'm afraid you may be required to demonstrate to us that your escorts are indeed providing their services voluntarily. And I'm sure we'll be very interested to hear what some of the girls on your books have to say about you?"

Micklewhite looks over Dan's shoulder, at Joe.

I swing around, ready to bring my fist up into his face and send him sprawling!

But Joe has moved away from the baseball bat and now goes to join Micklewhite behind the desk.

"You're kind have got it in for people like me! You want to shut us down....cut our throats! There is no control for gain in our agency," insists Micklewhite confidently, clearly demonstrating he knows the law well. "The problem is that you lot don't make any distinction between someone who chooses to provide their services willingly, to someone who is being forced into doing so by violence....I'm not some nigger living off the slag's I've got hooked on smack you know! I'm a business man who is recognised by the Chamber of commerce. Your threats mean nothing to me. So I suggest that if you want to see my companies private papers you get a warrant and come back. Then, of course, I'll be more than willing to help you in the proper legal manner. Until then we have nothing further to discuss!"

Dan shuffles out of the office with his head bowed and his shoulders sagging, looking like a schoolboy who has just had a good rollicking off his headmaster.

I remain there in the office, staring at them.

Just long enough for them both to realize that they ain't seen the last of me yet.

Oh yes, mark my words. Old Harry and his catamite Joe are going to be in for a right big shock!

Back in the car, driving to the Thistle.

"Well that went well." I say crisply, staring straight ahead.

"You were dead right John, I should have listened to ya. I'm so sorry mate. I just really thought it would help us, you know."

He's massaging his forehead and I can see myself in him, or should I say who I used to be.

Dan was my cover officer.

My only point of contact with the world I'd left behind.

My world.

Full of everyone I loved.

While I was in a different life, full of danger, and yeah I will admit it, excitement.

Living a lie that was supposed to be a life, and lying to myself that everything in my own life was really okay!

I'd speak to him on the phone every day and we'd meet up once a week, always far away from where I was working. Mainly so I could make sure they were keeping their ears to the ground to make sure I hadn't been rumbled.

And also to reassure myself that they hadn't forgotten all about me, because believe me, at certain times it really felt like they had just completely washed their hands of me.

The last job we worked on together was a fucking disaster!

Two men died....and so too did something inside of me.

I was extracted immediately and put on indefinite leave.

That's when I went home and found out that Laura had gone.

Three months later I was returned to active duty and transferred up to Birmingham, with the rank of Detective Inspector.

I went into this profession with good intentions, but left with a shattered dreams.

Once I was the one in his situation.

The man who wanted to do the right thing, the man who carried all the responsibility on his shoulders. But one day that got too heavy to bear and squashed me flat.

I can tell that Dan's knees are starting to buckle, and pretty soon he'll be a pancake too.

We'll see how his family react to him after that, and what kind of support he gets from his beloved Chief Superintendent then?

That day when I walked in and they were gone, was all at once the best and worst day of my entire life.

I was ready to walk away from the job.

To do what we had always talked about, but she didn't care about me anymore.

She didn't even leave me the literal Dear John letter.

I still care.......

I used to ask Dan to look after Laura for me, tell her I was alright, pass on to her the extra money I gave him, that type of thing.

I've no idea how close they actually got but I have my suspicions, even so I don't blame either of them now for anything that happened back then.

I toy around with the idea of asking Dan if he's heard anything from her or even if he knows where they are.

But I don't want to know anymore.

They've got their own life now, they don't need mine.

No one does.......

It's like Alfie and Gilda and Malcolm.

And I really hope that they have found their Humphrey.

Besides you never know, maybe one day I'll get a second chance at a family.

And if I do, you can be sure I won't fuck it up again.

I think about Madeline and wonder what she's up to.

And then I wish that I could be with them, where ever they are.

The next morning I drive over to my storage locker and put the money from the Erdington job with the other £900,00 in the carbon fibre suitcase on wheels.

I keep back a roll of pink heads, about 5k I reckon. Just to use as walking about money.

I haven't touched my wages in over two years now, except of course for all the direct debits and standing orders and all that shit that are taken out each month.

And to be honest I don't even know how much they come to.

I might have eighty grand, or eighty quid in there. I really don't know.

I ain't seen a bank statement in all that time and I never open my mail, it all just goes straight into the bin.

Then I pick up the Nike backpack containing my weapons cache.

A Baikal 9mm with a box of fifty parabellum rounds,

And;

A Ruger .357 snub nose with about twenty five shells.

My last two straps, and both need to be used or got rid of before I go for good!

I sling the backpack over my shoulder and padlock the locker.

I check the lock over and over again, like someone with OCD.

Once I'm sure that its secure I leave.

In the car I give Nigel a call off of Burkey's mobile phone.

He sounds scared, like he's heard a ghost.

He assures me that everything is ready for me to collect, and we arrange a rendezvous for about 6pm. Next to the playing fields at the back of the Hillman.

Back at Steelhouse Lane I sit in the car and wipe the entire memory off of Burkey's phone.

Then I give Webb a quick call off my own mobile, to tell her that she can have Burkey's phone back.

"You're timing couldn't be any better sir," she says. "Their sending it away today for examination."

I'm not worried, by the time they find out that the memory has been wiped I'll have made my arrest, and the subsequent phone records will be next to useless as evidence.

I tell her to wait for me by the third floor bogs.

Before I get out of the car I have a few sniffs and some special water, then I pop a couple of pieces of chewing gum into my mouth.

When I get up to the third floor, Webb's nervously pacing up and down the corridor outside the toilets.

"Did you find anything useful on it?" she asks, as I slip it surreptitiously into her palm.

"Maybe."

She folds her arms right over her chest, blocking my view of her cleavage.

"Maybe? Oh well, I'm so glad I risked my whole career for it now!"

"No, that's a definite maybe. I've got to check the numbers against those in my files, and I'll let you know the outcome."

"I think it's best if we stay away from each other for a while don't you?" she says forcefully. "People might start getting the wrong idea about us!"

"Okay then, whatever. But if you get those phone records you let me know straight away."

"I'll call your desk." she says, then she gives me a Giaconda's smile, turns around and walks away.

I watch her for a second or two, and I just can't stop myself.

"I LOVE YOU!" I call out jokingly.

It draws a few funny looks and makes her quickens her step.

She gets to the door, swipes her card and flips me the bird over her shoulder.

An little while later I get an unexpected call from Fontaine.

He's had a visit from a Detective Inspector Brian Wosley, from the local cold case unit.

"He wants to have a meet with this Williamson fella before he goes back to Manchester." he tells me.

"For what?" I ask. "This is an active case!"

"I know, but he believes there could be a possible link between this murder and the murders of Janine Downes and Gail Whitehouse?"

Two prostitutes killed in Wolverhampton in the early 90's.

"Well....shall I bring him over or what?"

"I don't fucking care Steve!"

"Will you be there all day then?"

"I might be, I'm not really anything to do with the investigation anymore."

"Yeah, but you know this Williamson doh ya? Will he see Wosley d'ya reckon?"

"How the fucking hell am I supposed to know!"

"Well will yow at least ask him for us?"

"I'll have to have a word with him and call you back."

"Right you are John. But doh leave it to long though will ya."

Oh just fuck right off will ya.......

Receiver down, hard.

Two hours later.

Briefing room, Steelhouse Lane.

Sitting on the metal chairs with the hard cushions....again.

Arsehole numb....again.

Overhead projector dead, not about to give us any sort of performance.

No mini reunions,

No blokey banter,

No porn videos,

And nothing to exchange via Bluetooth!

"Our files begin in December 1983, with the murder of a Birmingham prostitute named Valerie Brown,"

DI Brian Wosley don't even need to read the bulging files he's bought with him, he knows this shit off by heart.

The poor bastard.......

"She was last seen alive by friends in Balsall Heath on the night of the 8th. In the early hours of the next morning her body was found in Alderhanger Lane, Wythall. She'd been battered to death and most of her clothing was missing. Then in the summer of 84 prostitutes working in the Moseley, Balsall Heath and Sparkbrook areas started to be attacked by a man with a Bowie knife. They all gave a similar description, and after we circulated it the attacks quickly stopped. I can tell you right now that the investigation into these attacks was a right bloody shambles. If they'd have put just a little bit more effort into it then they'd have caught this bastard easily, but he still remains unknown. I tell you, it was only through sheer dumb luck there were no fatalities....then, on May 28th 1984 another death occurred. The body of 28-year-old Yvonne Colley was found in undergrowth on the fourth fairway of the Cocks Moor Woods golf course in Kings Heath,"

Cocks Moor.......more cocks.......

Wosley: "She'd been strangled with her own bra. She was from Bordesley Green, a Mother of two, and was last seen the night before in Moseley, which is less than three miles from where Valerie Brown's body had been found. Now of course, it's up to you whether you believe these deaths are linked or not. But all that I can tell you is that I've gone through the reports and statements with a fine toothed comb and the similarities are striking!"

Dan: "What was done at the time?"

Wosley: "Other vice girls were questioned and they traced the vehicles of as many curb crawlers as they could. Eventually they spoke to over 6,000 people, but it was hard to get any cooperation from most of them, and they never got the breakthrough they needed. They also liaised with other Police forces up and down the country who were investigating their own unsolved murders, but none of the M.O's matched sufficiently enough for them to make a positive link between any of them."

Dan: "Did they ever get a description of this knife attackers car?"

Wosley: "I've not found any descriptions of a vehicle associated with that individual, but that's not to say he didn't have one parked nearby to where the attacks occurred. Whoever killed Brown and Colley would have obviously needed some way of transporting the bodies."

Dan: "So that was it? They just stopped working the case?"

Wosley: "Not exactly no. It appears they got bogged down looking for characters like a 7ft Maniac and someone called The Gent, who was apparently a wealthy businessman with a sadomasochistic fetish. You see, they were listening to drug addicts! Chasing shadows. There was even mention of cults stalking the streets looking for sacrifices and ritual killings, comic book stuff."

Dan nods understandingly.

I wonder how many fictional characters he's looked for during his own investigation?

Wosley: "Then for six years all went quiet, well around the Midlands it did anyway. But there were still several prostitute murders around the rest of the country during this period, and most of them remain unsolved. Then, in October 1990 a Wolverhampton prostitute named Gail Whitehouse, 23, was found in bushes in the red light district. She'd been strangled and was semi naked. Then in February 1991 the body of Janine Downes, 22, was discovered dumped behind a hedgerow in a lay-by near Lambert's Restaurant on the A464. Apparently she was a favourite of the local Paedophiles because she looked so much like a child, she was just 5ft tall and only 7 stone. All she was wearing when she was found was a paisley pattern blouse, a bra and some blue ankle socks. The rest of her clothes, white trainers, denim jeans, and a black and yellow Nike shell-suit top have never been recovered. And neither has her bag. The pathologist concluded that she had been strangled and raped, although he couldn't tell in which order. She had also suffered major head trauma inflicted with a jagged-edged weapon and had facial wounds that were so horrific we weren't even sure it was her at first. But it was later confirmed by the forensics. Again there were many theories suggested to us, one that she was killed by her pimp, and another that Janine had witnessed the killing of Gail Whitehouse and was murdered to keep her quiet,"

_ __Wosley:_ "We also know that she had been killed and disposed of somewhere between midnight and 4am."

"I notice your saying we and us now...." Dan observes.

Wosley nods his head mournfully.

"I remember these two murders very well indeed Mr Williamson, I was a young DC in Wolverhampton CID at the time. I worked on the original investigations."

Dan's eyes then slide across onto Fontaine, who has been unusually quiet.

Fontaine: "Doh ask me sir," he says, shrugging and shaking his head. "I was still at school back then!"

Dan: "So what did these two inquiries actually entail?"

Wosley: "We stopped over five hundred cars, knocked on countless doors and interviewed over a thousand people. We staged reconstructions the lot, but nothing....just a few escaped psychiatric patients claiming it was them that did it!"

I glance at Fontaine, who is looking back at me with a knitted brow.

Suddenly I realise that I've been subconsciously checking my watch, constantly aware of time pressing on, and my upcoming meeting with Nigel.

I've got to interject to try and give this the hurry along.

Self: "What about Alun Kyte?"

Fontaine frumps and flops back into his chair.

Wosley: "He was a lorry driver from Stafford, and was convicted about ten years ago for a couple of similar killings."

Self: "Yeah I know that, but surely he's the best candidate you've got for these murders? I mean, we don't even know when the Bin man began killing do we? Or even how old he is? He might only have been a kid himself when these women were killed?"

Dan: "Well most Serial Killers begin murdering from about the age of 25, so we can at least assume that this man would be in his mid to late 40's."

Thanks again Dan, for yet another of your pointless tourettic outbursts!

Wosley: "Many killers have been linked to these crimes, but no actual hard evidence has ever been found to prove any of them are guilty. Without a DNA profile to comparison, or a confession we can't give a yes or no for any of them! So I'm afraid until we do get something more concrete I've just got to keep on chasing new lines of enquiry and follow them up,"

What a crap job! At least we've still got a fighting chance of finding our killer!

Yet, I still have to admire Wosley for the tenacious cunt that he is.

I'd have given up fucking years ago!

Wosley: "We're taking another look at Philip Smith at the moment, but to be honest with you we didn't find anything the first time, and I doubt that we will this time."

No way is Philip Smith responsible for the murders of these prostitutes.

He is what we call a spree killer. That is to say, he committed two or more murders without a so called cooling-off period.

During four days in November 2000, he battered two women to death and then strangled a third.

His victims were all found dumped near children's play areas, they had been wrapped in old off cuts of carpet and then set alight.

The suggestion that he could have been killing as far back as the 1980's is laughable.

Before he was arrested for these crimes he had no previous record of violence.

If you ask me, I think he'd just had enough of his lonely existence.

He was fed up of wanking himself to sleep each night when he got home from the pub, so he decided he would have himself some real fun for a change!

Alun Kyte on the other hand....

He's what we call a Trophy keeper. Someone who takes items from the victim's body with them.

So that they can relive the murder over and over again, every time they touch the trophy or toss them self over it or whatever the fuck they like to do with it.

He was convicted for the murders of two prostitutes. Tracy Turner and Samo Paull.

Which occurred in late 93 and early 94.

Both were found dumped in Leicestershire and just like Gail Whitehouse and Janine Downes their bodies were found half-naked.

All the items that were removed from their bodies have never been recovered.

He weren't arrested until years later, in March 1998.

He was taken into custody for an unrelated sex attack and during the booking in process a routine DNA sample was taken.

It was later matched to a sample taken from the body of Tracy Turner.

Soon afterwards, Kyte was charged with her murder. Along with that of Samo Paull.

In December 2000 he was jailed for life.

Over the years he has claimed to be responsible for many other unsolved murders.

"We've got a similar thing up in Manchester," says Dan. "In particular two bodies found on waste ground in the Collyhurst area, about a mile from the city centre. The first was found in a place they call Angel Meadows, it was on Crimewatch you might have seen it? She was found behind an old wall by workmen levelling off the ground ready for building work. They don't know who she is or how long she's been there, but they did find a distinctive pinafore dress and some old bits of carpet from inside a Cortina....oh and an old Guinness sign from the sixties, I think it was. The body was obviously badly decomposed, but they did managed to find out a cause of death. She'd been badly injured, assaulted they reckon, plenty of broken bones n'all that. They came to talk to me about it, wanted to know if I thought it was linked to our murders, but there's no fucking chance. If you ask me she was run over, the driver was probably drunk when he hit her and for some reason he decided to pick her up and put her in the car to get rid of any trace of her! God knows why? It's not like there was any CCTV back then. He more than likely wrapped her up in the carpet from out the Cortina, dumped her in Angel Meadows and then scrapped the car before anyone could ask him any questions. Then there's another case from 1971, a seventeen year old named Dorothy Leyden. She was found on a field behind a pub, she'd been raped and beaten to death as she walked home from a night out with friends. They'd been to see a Jimmy Ruffin concert and during the performance he'd thrown his towel into the crowd and Dorothy had caught it. It was found at the scene with all of her other belongings, nothing was taken. They've recovered an offenders DNA profile and I suggested that they should take a look at Sutcliffe, but I don't know if they have done or not yet."

Dan looks chuffed to bits with his opinions, but I can see a few flaws in them.

"Just look at the evolution of the crimes here sir!" implores Wosley. "Every monster starts somewhere! They learn their trade, refine their techniques. They try out different things to find what they like!"

"I can't see it myself." answers Dan doubtfully.

Wosley: "But just think about it, all victims were just thrown away like rubbish after they'd been killed, with very little or no attempt made to hide them. Left spread eagled on waste ground, behind bushes, and now chucked into skips. And then there's the signs of mutilation and the missing clothing? I think we might have at least another 3-to-5 Bin man murders right here, sir!"

Dan: "Yeah, but there are other things that don't match aren't there Brian? Like the fact that none of these victims were stabbed! All these were either bludgeoned or strangled. And you see, every Bin man murder consists of certain very precise elements. Then what about the fact that he destroys his DNA? And the calculated way in which he removes only certain parts of the face....I'm sorry, but I just can't see enough here to make it viable to try and link any of them."

God, he can be a right condescending prick sometimes!

Wosley's head drops and his shoulders deflate.

When he raises it again his expression has changed, from one of exuberation to that of desolation.

Wosley: "Well then do you mind if we run a fresh appeal alongside yours? Maybe this latest murder might jog someone's memory? Or force them to search their conscience and re-evaluate their loyalties?"

Dan: "I haven't got a problem with that at all mate," we all stand up. "And thanks again for coming."

Firm handshakes all round.

We let them leave, then Dan asks me what I truly think.

He's looking for some reassurance, so I tell him what I believe he wants to hear.

He seems happier now, but that weight above him is still getting heavier by the second.

No sooner have we stepped out of the briefing room when Detective Sergeant O'Grady comes haring towards us.

"SIR....SIR!" he shouts in a true Mancunian accent. "We've got news back from the vehicle experts....they've got a make and model of the car for us! It's a Lexus LS saloon. They couldn't get us a picture of who was inside the car, driver nor passenger. Because it has some sort of tint on the glass that reflects the camera. But, they did get a number off the rear plate!"

"YOUR KIDDING ME?" O'Grady grins and shakes his head. "FUCKING YES!!" hollers Dan, punching his fist into his palm.

"You ain't heard the best yet sir believe me! It was run through the _PNC_ database and we got a match with a car registered to an address in Wythenshawe!"

"Fucking hell! What they doing about it now then?"

"I've just spoken to DI Buckland and he says Sanderson's sorting out the warrant as we speak, they're just waiting for us to get back up there to execute it tonight!"

"Jesus Christ....we've got him my son....we've actually cunting got him!" exults Dan.

They laugh, and slap each other on the back jubilantly.

But I bet you a pound to a penny that this ain't the Bin man.

"Listen John, here's my phone numbers," he tears off a piece of paper and scribbles on it. "Mobile, work and home. If I don't get back down here then please ring me soon, and we'll arrange for you to come up and stay with us for the weekend....I'll take ya to a match and show ya around my town, ay."

I smile and take the paper and he grabs me, and hugs me and I want to hug him back but my arms won't move.

Then he kisses me on the cheek, and I watch him and O'Grady run across the office like Starsky and Hutch. Sliding across desks, jumping over chairs, grabbing all their shit as they go.

And just like that Dan is gone, as abruptly as he had arrived.

I go to the window and stand there until I see their white Insignia hatchback belt off down Steelhouse Lane and disappear left onto Colmore Circus Queensway.

I fold the piece of paper and I want to throw it into the bin.

Throw away all the memories, but I just can't do it!

So, I put it in my shirt pocket and hopefully I'll forgotten about it, and it'll get destroyed the next time I wash the shirt.

I go back to my desk, sit down and gaze out into the busy incident room.

But suddenly, it just feels so empty.

I turn into the car park next to the shanty allotments, right at the rear end of the Hillman estate.

Nigel's already there waiting for me, so I reverse into a parking space and he gets into the car with the holdall.

He takes off his white Ray-bans and his eyes flicker, dazzled by the strength of the early evening light.

It looks to me like he's been crying continuously since I left him.

All puffy faced and sniffling.

But I not about to ask him if he has or not?

It could just be hay fever.......

The sun is low in the sky and is coming in through the passenger side window behind Nigel, making a kind of halo effect around his head.

If I was still a religious man I might take it as some sort of sign, and renounce my ways and fuck off to join the Trappists.

But God left me and this place a long, long time ago!

"I've done as much as I can for now," I say. "But they might still want to talk to ya."

"Wha'....how d'they even know about me?"

"Listen, someone else must've known what was going on between you pair! And they are bound to tell someone about it sooner or later," he looks like he's about to have a panic attack. "Look, if they ask ya about it just deny everything, they can't place ya there and if they insist just tell 'em that you was fucking a brass at the time or something."

"Why tha' fuck wud I goo wiv' a prozzer?" he says, taking offence.

"LOOK YOU CUNT, DO YOU WANT TO SPEND THE REST OF YOUR SHITTY FUCKING EXISTENCE IN PRISON? GETTING FUCKED UP THE ARSE EVERY DAY WHILE THE SCREWS JUST WATCH AND LAUGH!"

He puts his glasses back on and shakes his head.

"Then do as I fucking tell ya....just keep your shit together and hopefully it will all be over in a few days."

"Hav' yow got any more of dem pills yow giv' me?"

I sigh, and pull another strip of Lorazepam from my pocket.

He's lucky I called in at the pharmacy before I came here.

He tugs the pills out of my hand and instinctively I grab his wrist.

"Take it easy with them! Do you understand me boy?"

He nods, breathes deeply and gives a sort of smile.

"How's Darren?"

"He's alright, he wowe say nuffin, trus' me."

"You got the strap with ya?"

He opens the holdall bag and I can see it sitting on top of the cut cake, wrapped up in an oily rag.

Nigel is holding the bag at arm's length, like it's giving off a bad smell! He can't even bring himself to look at it.

There's pain on his face, as if the bag is burning his fingers. So I leave him hanging there for a few more seconds, while I enjoy his agony.

Then I take the bag off of him and make sure that all the cake is in there.

I hand him his money with the promised bonus.

Small change to me, but a fortune to him and Darren.

After he counts the money he perks up.

"Iz der any more werk comin' up for uz or wha'?"

"Soon. I'll definitely be in touch, don't you worry about that!"

He gets out and skulks off across the playing field opposite, back into the dark heart of the Hillman.

I take the strap out of the bag and push it under the passenger seat, then I zip up the holdall and throw it in to the back of the car.

I start the engine and wheel spin away, throwing gravel up from the back wheels, which tings and twangs off the steel chain link fence behind me.

That night I go to the club to drop off the cut cake.

When I enter the office Raki and Parv are talking to some bloke I don't know, and have never seen here before.

They don't seem to worried about him being here, but I'm really pissed off by his presence.

"Can we have a word in private?" I ask.

"Yeah sure," they know better than to tell me no! "Goo 'nd have a drink, we'll call yow back up in a bit."

The man smiles at me as he passes, and then again as he goes out the door.

"WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?" I rage.

"Doh worry about him, he's a solid geezer. Parv can vouch for him," I look at Parv and he confirms the endorsement with a nod. "He's come to see yow an' ask yow'r permission to set up an operation round here."

"Where do you know him from?" I ask Parv.

"He was in business with me cousin."

"Ya mean the one who's in Winson Green?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah that's the one." says Parv, without the merest hint of cynicism in his voice.

"FOR FUCKS SAKE," I bellow. "What are you morons trying to do to me? How many times have I told ya, never tell anyone about our arrangement....there's plenty more cunts out there I could be dealing with, and their probably be a damn sight cheaper than you pair n'all....fucking arseholes!"

They look at me, pathetically apologetic.

"We just f'ought it was best to let yow know what was gooin' on....we know wha' happens to people that doh get yow'r permission!"

"What's he into then?"

"Doh know yet, we ay asked him."

I shake my head. These bastard clowns will be the death of me!

I put the holdall with the cut cake in on the desk.

"It's the same as last time, only the price has gone up another ten percent."

Raki puffs out his cheeks and then lets the air out of his mouth slowly, like a punctured beach ball.

"Oooo! They ay gonna like that Gaz I cun tell yow right now!" he moans.

"And I told you I don't give a fuck what they think, I've got my overheads n'all ya know....just get it sold! Tell 'em its new shit, different to before."

"They'll be pissed when they find out we'm lying to 'em."

"Well that's your problem not mine....and by the way, did you get rid of that other little problem yet?"

"Yeah, course. It was no sweat in tha' end."

"Good, and I don't expect to hear no more about it, right! Otherwise you're both BANG in trouble!" They both flinch on the word bang. "Now go and tell that bloke to get his arse back up here. I want to have a word with him....alone!"

Together they leave the office.

I loosen my Louis Vuitton tie, light a cigarette and have a shufti around.

Up on the back wall are numerous CCTV screens, the images flicking from one camera angle to another.

I trace the cables running down the wall and find that all the TV's are linked to a central hard drive underneath the desk, which must store all the footage.

Then, I look around the edges of the ceiling, and realize that there is actually no camera recording the interior of the office.

Could be very useful that could.......

Seconds later the door opens and the bloke enters, full of the same ill-advised confidence that he'd left with.

I'll knock that out of him double lively!

"Alright." he chirps, and holds out his hand expecting me to shake it.

I stare at him with a poker face and he fires back a scornful gaze for about fifteen seconds, until the contest becomes too intense for him.

Then his braggadocios attitude fades and he lowers his hand.

"Okay, I understand." he says.

"No you fucking don't....just who the fuck are ya anyway?" I ask.

'I'm...."

"Why have ya come here?" I interrupt before he can tell me.

"Err....I wuz told t'come 'nd see ya....ya get me!"

My eyes are cutting right into him and now he will barely look at me.

"By who?"

"Friends o'yours."

"Which friends? I ain't got non! Only acquaintances!"

"Raki an' Parv....I told 'em I wuz finking of settin' up an operation round 'ere....they told me I should come 'nd see ya first!"

He's flapping.

I flick the ash from my cigarette on to the floor, and tread it in to the shag pile carpet.

British Asians really do have such terrible tastes in interior design!

I mean it ain't practical is it? If, for example, I was to drop this lit cigarette onto it, the whole fucking place'd go up in a matter of seconds.

"Take all your clothes off mate!" I sniff.

"Wha'?" he laughs nervously.

"Just do it!" I say, very matter-of-factly.

"No, I don't fink I will fanx....if you're not interested then I'll just go shall I and we'll forget all about it?"

I circle around the office to the door, and lock it and take out the key.

"Fucking do it!" I say menacingly.

He closes his eyes and kicks off his Timberland boots.

I pick them up and examine them.

Looking inside and checking for false heels and soles, but there just ordinary boots.

He lowers his trousers, like that's going to be enough.

"Take 'em off." I instruct. "And your Calvin Klein's as well!"

He takes them off and is left stark naked in the middle of the office, cupping his hands around his cock and balls.

I pick up his Stone Island parka and go through the pockets, then I search the rest of his clothing.

Clean.

Then I check his chest and back for the edges of any prosthetic makeup used to conceal a wire.

Nothing.

I always use the old strip search routine to shake down newbie's.

With a little bit extra thrown in for my own amusement, of course.

"Open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

He gives me a quizzical sideways glance but does as he is told.

"Reach down, grab your balls and lift 'em up....now hold your cock and pull back your foreskin!"

It takes him a few seconds to pluck up the courage to do it, and when he does he keeps his eyes closed. "Now bend over the desk and spread your arse!"

He tries to protest, but I stop him dead.

Before he ends up that way.......

"When I'm talking you ain't! So shut the fuck up and do as I tell ya!"

Slowly he lowers himself onto the desk, then he reaches back, grabs his cheeks and pulls them apart.

I crouch down and look right up his hairy ring piece.

Again there is nothing.

And no farmer Giles either.......the lucky arsehole.......

I stand up and get right behind him, until I'm almost touching him and I swear my trousers start tenting.

He's breathing heavy now, his body is lifting off the desk like he wants to get up and I can almost hear his strawberry tart drumming against the wood.

He thinks I'm going to rape him and that gives me such a rush of power that it makes every hair on my body stand on end.

I should really do it....just to assert my dominance over him if nothing else, but I won't. And I never have done, not yet anyway.

But there's always a first time, and who knows, the next one who comes along might need it! Need me to show 'em their alpha from beta and omega!

Don't get it twisted though....I'm no bent copper!

"It's alright, it's alright," I say, tapping him on his shoulder. "I've seen microphones hidden in all sorts of places believe me! You can get up now. So, where are you really from then mate? Come on, you ain't got to lie to me anymore."

Earlier I could hear well spoken undertones beneath his forced urbanized accent.

"I was born in Cheswick and brought up in Buckhurst hill."

"I fucking knew it," I say wagging my finger. "What did your old man do? Armed robber was he?"

"No. He was a Barrister....he's dead now."

"So you're the black sheep of the family then are ya? I bet your a real disappointment to your Mother?"

"No actually, she thinks I'm a legitimate businessman. I tell her I run an I.T. consultancy. She only ever sees me on birthdays and at Christmas, so just lets me get on with it."

"What about siblings?"

"None. I was a spoilt little cunt! Can't you tell?"

"Yeah I can." I say venomously.

He's a good ten years younger than me and more attractive with it.

"Can I get dressed now please?" he huffs.

"Of course you can,"

He snatches his clothes up off the floor.

"Now then, what are ya really doing here?"

"I used to work with Parvinders' cousin, we ran an operation together in Holland."

"Yeah I know. Smuggling over dope, hidden in fertilizer. I've heard all about it. So then tell me, why is he now rotting in a prison cell and your still swanning about as free as a bird....turn grass on him did ya?"

"No, nothing like that! When he was arrested I stayed over there and kept a low profile, we had an agreement you see. If either of us got caught we would keep our mouth shut and take the punishment ourselves. Whoever was left on the outside would look after the other with the profits. Now I'm back and looking for a way back in."

"Doing what?"

"Credit cards, passports, that kind of thing. I've got a degree in computer science, so I thought I may as well put it to some use. And I've heard there's a high demand and some good money to be made doing it!"

Someone like that could be very useful to me.

"What's your name?"

"Rex....Rex Campbell-Harding." he answers sheepishly.

"Rex?" I snigger. "That's a fucking dogs name ain't it."

"Not you as well!" he snorts indignantly. "That's all I ever hear when I tell people my real name....I'm sick of it!"

"Alright, alright. No need to get shirty....just calm down, I'm only having a laugh with ya!"

I like this kid a lot.

"Now listen to me," I say straightly. "This arrangement is bonded in blood....right! Meaning if you fuck me over I'll spill plenty of it....mostly yours!"

He understands, normally I have to give the newbie's a bit slap to get my message across, show 'em that really I mean what I'm saying!

But I don't need to take it any further this time, he knows what I'm telling him is the truth!

He listens to my terms.

I ask him for five thousand a month, when three is my usual going rate.

I expect him to haggle me down as if we're on Dragons' Den, but he just rolls over, like a cat with an itchy stomach.

He's either stupid or desperate, either way I can already tell this is going to be a very fruitful partnership.

"First payment in advance, then again at the end of this month and then the first week every month thereafter."

"So you want me to pay you ten thousand up front?"

I chew my bottom lip and nod.

"Why? Is that a problem for ya?"

"No." he replies shaking his head.

I know I'm not going to be around to offer him my protection for that much longer, but fuck me....I've just bagged myself 10k for sod all. And it's like the famous slogan goes; 'Every little helps'.

"Call it a gesture of goodwill," I say. "I also want two passports for myself, I'll bring you the photographs and names when I pick up my first payment."

I leave the office and jog down the stairs.

I'm keen to get out of here now, but then I hear someone call me back.

With all this noise I can't quite place the voice, so I swing around to see who it is.

My eyes search the throng of people around me, but I can't see anyone familiar.

I must be hearing things again.

Time to go home.......

"HELLO STRANGER!"

A tap on the shoulder,

I turn around and Madeline is standing behind me.

Already drunk, and holding a fresh glass of white wine in her hand.

"Madeline....what are you doing here?"

"I saw you coming down the stairs...." she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Oh yeah, well let's just keep that between me and you shall we!" I tap the side of my nose.

She giggles and winks her long curved eyelashes which must be fakes, then she burst into a fit of unbridled laughter and buries her head into my chest.

I put my arm around her and rub her back.

It feels good to touch her, my heart is racing, my stomach fizzing.

I mean I've had a lot of women in the last few years, but nothing that has felt remotely like this.

The same way that Laura made me feel!

Then I realise that Madeline ain't the only one whose noticed me coming down the stairs. Raki and Parv are coming towards us, sporting the same asinine grin.

Looking like faces drawn on a balloon.

I really can't let my two worlds collide, so I jerk my thumb at 'em and flash my temper, and they back away.

"Are you with anyone?" I ask Madeline.

"Friends...." she points across the dance floor, and nearly takes a blokes eye out with her finger.

I apologise on her behalf.

"Well I think you should go back to them? Make sure they get you home safely."

"No....their boring! I want to stay with you!" she reminds me off a sulky child as she looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, batting her long eyelashes.

She looks so fucking gorgeous, with her long, wavy hair. She's wearing a tight white dress that zips all the way up the front, black fishnet stockings and knee length leather boots with a metal spike heel.

Something like a dominatrix might wear.

I think I love her.

And everything about her.......

Her deep eyes, her slight overbite....every little fucking thing!

"Come on then, let's get you home."

I prise the drink off her and then walk her out of the club, looking and feeling a bit like a date rapist.

Back at her place.

A chic, city centre apartment.

Open plan,

Floor to ceiling windows,

A balcony with an unbelievable view.

You can see it all from up here,

The Rotunda,

Saint Martin's,

The Bullring,

Selfridges,

Everything....

She owns it apparently, but there's no way she could afford this on her salary.

Me thinks she must get a little bit of help off Mommy and Daddy with the Mortgage payments.

I sit her down on the corner sofa and prop her up with some plump scatter cushions.

"I need to use your toilet." I say, and she points the way to it.

The bathroom is ultra modern, all smoked glass and chrome fittings.

The toilet bowl is an impractical square shape, fuck knows how you'd have a shit on it.

The corners would dig right into the back of your legs.

I piss in the sink, so that I don't miss the bowl and splash urine all over the hardwood flooring.

Then, I wash my cock thoroughly under the hot water tap, getting all the fluff from my new boxers off my bell end.

I tuck my cock back into my trousers and piss runs down my leg! It doesn't matter how many times I shake it I always get this dribbling!

It runs down my leg and I pat my trousers to soak it up, then flush the toilet so that she thinks I've used it.

When I get back into the living area Madeline is bent over the coffee table, it looks like she's being sick so I rush over to help her and make sure she don't choke on her own vomit.

However, when I get there she lifts her head and I can see that she has actually been snorting a line of coke!

I never knew she was like this, she seems so different here.

Day and night.......

She looks up at me through bloodshot eyes and offers me the straw.

I act coy, like I've never touched the stuff before.

"Go on!" she encourages me. "You'll be okay....I promise." then she puts down the straw, gets up and stumbles over to the big American style refrigerator in the black marble kitchen.

The more I get to know her the more fantastic she becomes!

You thought she couldn't get any better.......

I pick up the straw, bend down and hoover up the fat line she has left for me on the small vanity mirror.

this shit's weak as fuck, but I feign like it's got some poke and sincerely hope it ain't the scaggy shit I've been pushing around.

Otherwise we'll both be in serious trouble!

She comes back over to the corner sofa, carrying two 660ml bottles of San Miguel and hands one to me.

It's a sign.......it must be a fucking sign.......

I take it and crash back onto the sofa, then watch as she downs a quarter of the bottle and puts it on the table.

My dicks already rock hard.

Now she stands right in front of me and unzips the white dress, spreading it open like a swan stretching it's wings.

Beneath it, she's wearing suspenders and a bodice.

Black, to match her fishnets.

Don't let this one slip through your net.......

She lets the dress slide off her shoulders and fall to the ground.

Then she walks up to me.

I suck a mouthful of beer from my bottle and suddenly realize what paradise must be like.

She spreads my legs, gets down onto her knees and I lean forward, and we start kissing.

I push my tongue deep into her mouth and she does the same to me.

We exchange thick, beery saliva.

Then she puts her hand into my chest and pushes me back.

She pulls my tucked in shirt out of my trousers and lifts it up to expose my stomach.

Then she starts kissing my hairy flesh, and I let out a groan of ecstasy!

While she's kissing me she unbuckles my belt, and then pulls my trousers and Zimmerli's down to my knees.

My cock springs up into her face. Long, thick, meaty, and already dripping with pre-come.

She licks her lips as she looks at it, then grabs it.

But it's so engorged that she can't get her fingers all the way around it! I haven't had an erection like this for years!

So now she grasps it with both hands, and starts wanking me off.

Maybe I'll never have to spend another Christmas alone again!

She licks the tip, then up and down the shaft.

With nothing but a Birds Eye frozen Turkey dinner, a boxset of Rising Damp and a Harrods hamper for company!

More groans of ecstasy as she puts it in her mouth, clamps her lips around it and starts sucking.

It's that fucking big that she can only get the tip in to her mouth, I can feel her teeth rubbing against my bell end which really hurts.

But somehow, I find that I like the pain!

She sucks me off for about ten minutes before she climbs on top of me and we start dry humping.

Someone to enjoy good food and drink with.......

Someone to sit and watch TV with.......

Someone to spoon when we go to bed.......

She sits up on my lap and gets out her pert schoolgirl tits. I lick the bullet hard nipples and suck them hard and then bite them softly.

All the time I'm working my fingers down into her under wear and then up inside her.

I pick her up, cradling her arse cheeks in my hands, squeezing them repeatedly.

I carry her all the way to her bedroom.

I lay her down on the bed gently, Then I climb on myself and straddle her.

I stick the fingers I've had up inside her into my mouth and taste her.

It's the sweetest thing I've ever had.

Someone to wake up next to.......

Someone to hold my hand.......

Someone to.......

And then it hits me, a feeling that I've never had before....like I'm not worthy of her, as if she's just too good for me!

My cock is waning and I'm sweating profusely.

Not a heavy breathing sexual induced sweat.

But more of a feverish brain boiler!

The only thing I can compare it to is how I felt after the first time I'd took another humans life.

Your whole body burns, fire inside and out....because you haven't learned to control it yet!

Suddenly I'm seeing the world through Nigel's eyes, remembering what it was like for me.

The endless nights and tireless days,

The sleep while you walk and the mania when you rest.

Then Paulina comes along and wants to join in again....

Her face is nothing but a bloody mask....

This time I tell her to fuck off! Only she won't go....

So I have to show her that I mean it this time, and because she's still scared from what happened to her she goes, and I tell her never to come back....

A pain shoots through my head, down my face and into my chest.

I'm stinging,

A thousand pairs of hands are touching me,

Crawling over every inch of my skin,

My bones are aching,

Muscles twitching,

Pins and needles in every limb,

Teeth itching,

Mind racing,

Eyes blurred,

Throat closing!

I've been trying to make the faces of pain look like faces of pleasure, but Madeline can tell that there is something very wrong with me.

I leap off the bed and back away from her, wiping the perspiration on to my sleeve.

Rubbing and rubbing, but it just keeps coming.

She tells me not to worry.

I tuck the old fella away and apologise profoundly.

"I've got to go Madeline..I..I..I'm so sorry!"

I can't even look at her,

These eyes should not be able to perceive such a wondrous creature.

They should be burned out with red hot pokers, until they turn to jelly and run down my cheeks as the last tears that I will ever cry!

During the night I get up a dozen times for a piss.

Every time I get back into bed it takes me ages to drop back off to sleep, and when I do it's only intermittent at best.

I'm having vivid dreams about some really distorted shit.

No two are ever the same.

Each one different to the last.

In the morning I'm woken by sirens wailing in the distance, and I start to wonder if they are finally coming for me.

I slide my hand under my pillow and wrap my finger around the trigger of the Baikal, ready and prepared to do whatever it takes.

Eventually the sirens fade away and are replaced by the sound of the wind chime in the garden next door.

Useless bastard tat.......

I'd like to hang out the window and shoot the fucking thing to bits, but I can't.

Now, just to top that off, the dog from a few doors down has been let out for a shit. But instead of crapping and going back inside, it starts yapping at the birds in the trees along the back fence.

Dumb bastard animal.......

I'd like to hang out the window and shoot the fucking thing to bits, but again I can't.

I loosen my grip on the strap and blink my bedside clock into focus;

I get up and turn on the stereo.

The drums at the beginning of 'Sussudio' kick in, followed by the trumpets.

Feeling good, which is a bit of a miracle after the fiasco last night!

I take a clean shirt out of the dryer and run the iron over it before getting dressed.

I've got terrible hiccups that I can't seem to shift, so I'll have to force some breakfast down me to try and get rid of 'em.

The loaf of bread I bought the other day has gone rock hard and the last of the milk is on the turn, but it don't matter because 'Don't Lose My Number' is on now.

Four minutes and forty eight seconds of sheer brilliance.

The bread don't taste too bad either, once it's been toasted and plastered with salted butter.

Cigarette, coffee, line, cigarette.

My mobile rings; it's Madeline.

I let it ring out and go to voice mail.

Coffee, line, cigarette, coffee, line.

Out.

I listen to Phil in the car, all the way to work.

'Going Back'.

His latest, and last CD.

However, when I get into work I feel like shit warmed up!

I don't know if it's this place or if it's just me.

Or could it be that lumpy milk.......

I sit down at my desk and look around the office.

Stanwyck's officers are already out pounding the streets, beating bushes on other cases.

My people are just sitting around scratching their arses, filling time. Waiting for me to give them something to do.

I'm supposed to be a delegator, but I ain't got a bleeding clue what I'm supposed to be telling them.

Come back Tony please.......all is forgiven.......

I'm better at following orders than I am at giving them.

But your no sheep either.......

I prefer investigating on my own, I'm use to that.

It's easier to keep secrets that way.

I mean you know what they say?

 And I can add something to that;

 That's why I don't really worry about my workers loyalty to me.

Because, if any of them do ever get an itchy tongue I know exactly how to cure it.

A piece of hot lead, fired at high velocity in to the cranial cavity. First thing in the morning or last thing at night, whichever is most convenient.

And the best thing is....I offer my own, free delivery service! Right to your front door!

No prescription required.

I rub my itchy eyes, then log on to the _PNC._

I think it's best if I look up this Rex Campbell-Harding, check if he's got a criminal record or not?

It's a risky thing to do, because you can easily find yourself being called up into the Deputy Chief Constables' office to explain an alleged, _'Misuse of the Police computer system'_ charge.

But I've just got to take that chance, I need to make sure that he is exactly who he says he is!

The records on the database are known as _'Nominal files'_. They are text only, so there'll be no mug shot of him.

Not like on _CSI_ , where they type a name into their computer and it brings up every last fucking detail about the person.

Digitized fingerprints,

A rotating DNA helix,

How many weetabix they had for breakfast this morning,

What the colour of their last poo was!!!!

Fucking codswallop....

Everything that a real Copper needs to know is right here.

I read down the page.

Nothing too serious.

A couple of minor public order offences from his University days,

A few fines,

Three points on his driver's license.

But most importantly, nothing for me to be worried about.

He was being dead straight with me.

I close down the database and log off of the computer.

Then I get up and go to ????

Hang on a minute....what the fuck did I get up to do?

No seriously, I can't remember....my mind has gone completely blank!

I scratch my scalp and look around for a visual clue that might kick the thought back into my head.

But I'm still none the wiser!

I feel like a fish in a tank gawping out, wishing I was one of them, walking around with a purpose, instead of swimming in circles banging my head against the glass.

I've not got a headache, but my whole head feels like it's about to explode, as my brain swells and tries to force its way out through my ears and nose.

I sit back down and lay my head on my hands and look out the window.

The light burns my eyeballs, and I can see every single piece of dust floating around the room.

Then my mouth opens on its own, like I'm yawning, but I'm not.

And I can't stop it,

And something resembling blue smoke or light leaves me, or enters me, I can't tell which,

And there's a high pitched ringing in my head blocking out all other sound,

And it's getting louder, like a kettle whistling,

And higher, and higher,

And then it's gone, and my head is clear, and I can hear my work mobile ringing.

It's Madeline.

I take a deep breath.

This time I'd better answer.

"I tried calling you earlier but it went straight to voice mail?" she explains awkwardly.

"Yeah....sorry I was in a meeting. So, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Not to good actually!" there's a silence, which is filled with nervous tension.

"Last night was crazy though, right?" she asks.

"You could say that yeah."

More silence and heavy breathing from her end.

"I'm sorry John." she says cringingly.

"Don't apologise."

"No John I have to....I really do! I fear that I may have come on a bit strong?"

She seems so different again, back to the sensible Madeline that I've always known.

Night and day.......

"It's fine, don't worry about it."

"I'm not in the habit of doing things like that....I hope I didn't scare you away?"

"Don't be silly, it's just that, well....I think there are a few things we need to talk about before we do anything like that again....things that you need to know about me."

I want to tell her everything, but not even she would be able to understand.

Fucking hell, I still can't even get my head around half of the shit that I've done!

"Okay. How about we meet up tonight?" she sounds happier now, happy that she hasn't lost me.

"I can't make it tonight Madeline I'm busy." I say regretfully.

"Oh....right, I see!"

I'm sure she thinks I'm giving her the brush off, so I quickly think of something to save the conversation before she goes, and I never hear from her again.

"How about I book us a table somewhere? For tomorrow night maybe?"

"Yeah sure, that would be great John."

"Right then. Do you like Italian food?"

Please say yes.......please say yes.......

"Sure, I love it."

Fan-fucking-tastic! I punch the sky.

"Magic, so I'll sort that out and then let you know what time I'll pick you up."

"Okay, brill....and thanks for getting me home safely last night."

"No problem."

I want to tell her that I think I love her, but that will come later.

For now we both settle for a goodbye.

Maybe Dan was right when he was telling me all about his family.

I have forgotten what it feels like to have that one special person that you dream about all day, and can't wait to be with.

Maybe Madeline is that person.

And the best thing is....I think she feels the same way about me!

As soon as I end the call with Madeline I phone Caracciola's, a very authentic little place just outside of town.

It takes them a while to answer, but when they do I ask to talk to the owner Renzio.

I ask him for his best table.

He tells me their fully booked.

I say money is no object.

He tells me he can fit me in at 8pm.

I thank him and fully expect him to up the price of the bill by at least 25%, but I really don't care.

I'd pay anything to make her happy.

I sit back in my chair, hands behind my head, feeling pleased with myself.

Then, I start to get excited about what I've got planned for tonight.

I almost feel alive again!

Stationary on the petrol station forecourt.

Sick and tired of waiting for a petrol pump.

A long queue of cars is backed up behind me,

And all because the owners of the cars that have already filled up their tanks have gone inside to pay for the fuel, and have then decided to do their weekly shop while they're at it.

Since when the fuck did a petrol station become a fucking supermarket?

And if you are going to do some shopping when you go inside, you could at least have the common decency to move your fucking car from in front of the fuel pump first!

But the worse thing is, they have the audacity to call this place; Express.

At last one of the car owners comes out the shop and goes back to their vehicle, which is sitting on the last row of pumps.

It's a women, carrying half a dozen bags of groceries. Real fucking Sloane Ranger she is!

It takes her a minute and a half to get in, put on her seat belt and start the car.

Then another 30 seconds to adjust herself in the mirror before she pulls away.

All the cars in front of me are already committed to waiting for spaces in the first couple of rows of pumps, so I steer around them and drive up to the empty space.

My fuel cap is on the opposite side to the pump, but I ain't going to wait any longer for one on the correct side to become available.

I turn in slowly to get as close as I can to the pump, so that the nozzle will reach easily.

But just then an old banger full of chavs comes tearing up from nowhere and cuts right in front of me.

I beep my horn, stick my head out the window and ask what the fuck they think they're doing.

The driver gets out and gives me the dead eye, while two of his mates sitting in the back of the car turnaround to face me, then they start laughing their heads off.

I can read their lips, their calling me a dick head.

I get out and walk over to the driver who's already started filling up the car.

"Wha' tha' fucks yow'r problem dickhead?" he asks cockily, clearly figuring he's got enough back-up with him to scare me off, but he don't know what's coming.

"You're the one with the problem sunshine!" I reply, pushing my warrant card into his face.

He pulls the nozzle out the car, spilling petrol all over his shitty trainers.

It's a good job it don't splash on my Prada's, £290 these where.

I'll tell ya one thing? If even a single drop had of touched me I wouldn't have been able to stop myself.

I'd have grabbed the nozzle from his hand, sprayed him from head to toe with petrol and set the cunt alight.

"Sozz mate....I'll move the car for ya shall I!" he struggles to swallow.

"Are you always so fucking ignorant?"

Keep your cool.......there's far more important work to be done tonight.......

"There's a queue of good people waiting here! What makes you think you can just push in front, ay?"

Out the corner of my eye I see the cunt in the passenger seat getting out of the car.

"Ev'ry'fing alright Paul?" he asks across the roof.

Paul nods.

"Wha' d'yow want mate?" the cunt asks me, full of ego.

I don't even look at him, I just hold up my warrant card.

He ducks back into the car and has a quick chat with the dickheads in the back.

"Now then Paul....have you got a driving license I can have a look at?"

Pauls hands are shaking as he pulls a grubby, cracked leather bi-fold from his back pocket. He opens it and hands me his photo card license.

I look at it, then back at him.

"What about insurance documentation?"

"I ay got any 'ave I."

"What insurance?" I raise my eyebrows for added effect.

"Nah, I got insurance. I jus' doh carry the documents round wiv' me tha's all."

"Right then. You get around here," I say, pointing to the passenger cunt. "And you pair stay right there." I shout to the dickheads in the back.

The passenger cunt comes round to the driver's side and I pen them in, between the door and the pump.

"Get out my way." I say shoving them aside.

I stick my head into the car and with a sleight of hand I learnt from a box of magic tricks I had for my tenth birthday I take a full zip-lock bag from inside my coat, and drop it in the driver's door pocket.

The dickheads in the back are puffing on cigarettes, seemingly unconcerned. But really, they are just desperately trying to mask the heavy stench of cannabis.

I make a show of searching the rest of the car, leaving the door pocket until last.

Then, I stick my hand into the door pocket and rummage around, when I think I've put on a convincing enough performance I pull the bag out and hold it up, for them all to see.

I don't say anything, I just shift my eyes accusingly from one to the other.

"Wha' the fuckin'ell? Tha' ain't mine." Paul protests vehemently.

"Jesus Paul....why the fuck dayn't yow tell me yow had that shit in the car man?" says the shocked passenger cunt.

"Look man, I swear down tha' ay mine!" Paul is shaking and his voice is beginning to crack.

"Then what is it doing in your vehicle?" I ask, fanning the flames.

"I doh know....really I don't....it must've been planted there or sumfin'!"

I shake my head and tut.

"Turn around Paul," I take out my cuffs. "Right, I'm arresting you all under section 5 of the Misuse of Drugs Act, 1971. Which states that it is an offence for any person to have a controlled drug in their possession, whether lawful or not, with intent to supply it to another. Namely, in this case cocaine. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. And I'm sure you all know how the rest goes!"

I watch the passenger cunt carefully, as he looks like he might try to make a run for it.

"Don't even think about it sunshine! Or I'll have the dogs bought in to find ya!" I warn him. "AND YOU TWO BETTER NOT MOVE EITHER....DO YOU HEAR ME!" I shout through the glass to the dickheads.

They still insist it's not theirs, but the truth is they shouldn't have fucked with me! And it was definitely worth losing some of my stash just to get back at the fuckers.

I bet they won't be cutting in front of anyone else again, will they!

But now what the fuck am I going to do with them?

Stick them all in my car and take them back to the station. Then book them in and do all the paper work?

Fuck that!

I ain't got no time for all that shit!

I'm about to let them go with just a wrap on the knuckles, when I get a right stroke of good luck.

A riot van pulls on to the forecourt and parks up.

Two uniforms get out and walk toward the shop.

I call them over, show them my warrant card and dangle the drugs in front of my face.

"I'll let you boys have this one if you like," I say. "It's a section five....so it should look good on your records, ay."

"Cheers Guv." says the younger uniform.

Happily I hand him control of Paul and the passenger cunt, while the other uniform deals with the dickheads in the car.

When I get to my car I turn back and smile at the chavvy cunts, then wave them bye bye as they're put in the back of the van.

I get in the car, start her up and check the fuel gauge, I've still got a quarter of a tank left.

Fuck it! I'll get some from somewhere else later!

A thumbs up to the two uniforms and I pull away. Steering around the old banger and past the bangs coming from inside the riot van.

I approach the exit and wait for a gap in the traffic.

A Mother and young child are holding hands as they walk along the pavement and pass right in front of me.

I rev the engine, the Mother jumps out of her skin and pulls the child out of the way.

The child, a girl of about five, is holding a McDonald's balloon on a stick.

And when the Mother tugs her out the way she loses her grasp on the stick and the balloon falls to the ground, then rolls underneath the front bumper of my car.

Just at the exact same moment when the road is clear for me to pull out.

The girl tries to jerk her hand free from her Mothers grip, and chase the balloon. But her Mother holds her back.

Now normally I would just drive over it and listen for the pop beneath my wheels as I watch the horror and confusion on the kids face.

But not today, today has been too good of a day for such a spiteful act, why spoil it now!

So I gesture to the Mother that it's ok to let the child step in front of my car and retrieve her balloon.

The Mother holds up a courteous hand.

And once the girl is holding her prized possession again, she skips back to her Mother joyfully.

I smile and turn up the stereo;

Jumping Jack Frost - Helter Skelter - September 93.

I was there.

I take the zoot out the ashtray, spark it up, wind up the windows and blast off up the road.

Back in Stoke.

Bethesda Street.

Enemy territory.

Them with the upper hand.

Engine off.

Mobile dead.

Nobody can call,

No one can text me,

I'm off the grid.

Parked up out of sight, but where I can still see every car that leaves the station.

Nothing visible, except for the orange glow from the tip of my cigarette.

I know from asking around that Adams drives a two year old, grey Mercedes S-class,

So now it's just a waiting game.

I check the clock on the dash.

2 hours,

27 cigs,

14 sniffs,

And 1 bottle of special water.

Spitting feathers.......

10°c outside.

100°c Inside.

Thunder rumbling in the distance!

Eyes up to the rear view mirror to make sure the false 'tache ain't peeling off my top lip.

Head lights swing around in my direction.

Momentarily blinded by the light, I can't make out what type of car it is.

Slide down in my seat, so it looks like my car is empty.

Wait for the headlights to drive past.

Look out my side window, into the passing car.

Inside nothing visible, except for the red glow of Adams's mush.

Sit up,

Prop glasses on,

Pick up the empty briefcase.

Out the car.

Walking toward Hanley Police station,

Heart hammering,

Hoping I haven't lost my touch.

In through the doors to the front desk.

Female Sergeant on duty.

Get in fast,

Hit her hard.

"Hello there, photocopier repairs...." she stares at me blankly. "Our company had a call from one of your Senior Officers saying you had some broken copiers that he needed us to have a look at?"

"Oh....right," she's been caught off guard, but quickly steadies herself when she clocks the fake accreditation around my neck. Hanging on a Xerox lanyard which was given to me at work by one of their pesky reps.

It's all about the little details....the finishing touches.

That's what makes the impossible seem plausible.

"Okay then, do you know which officer it was who contacted your company?"

I pat down my pockets and then dip my fingers into one and pull out the piece of paper with Dan's numbers on it.

"It was...." I pretend like I'm reading. "Chief Superintendant David Adams."

"Oh well, unfortunately you've just missed him."

"That's fine, if you could just point me the way to them I can get started!"

"I'm not sure which one's it is that are broken ya see, and it's a bit late now anyway....is there any chance you could come back tomorrow morning? He's usually in by about eight-thirty."

"Sorry love. No can do," her heckles go up, she didn't like being called love.

Just fucking calm down before you blow this.......

"I've got another job over in Leicester after this you see. Then I've got to be back down South at our head office by first thing tomorrow morning."

"Okay, right. Just let me make a quick phone call, I won't be a second."

Holy shit! Who the fuck is she going to call?

Shut up and keep smiling you idiot.......

She disappears into a back room for about forty-five seconds, then comes back.

"Right then, no one else seems to know anything about this! So the only thing I can suggest is for you to go up there on your own and try to find them yourself. Do you think you'll be able to do that?"

"Yeah, no problem. I can spot a jippy copier from a mile off."

We both laugh.

She's been more than convinced by me.

You definitely ain't lost it.......

Thank you very much Mr Xerox man, and not forgetting Big Al's fancy dress shop.

She gives me directions.

I walk away and start up the stairs.

"Wait there a minute!" she calls, stopping me in my tracks.

I turn around.

Just keep fucking smiling.......

"Only the cleaners are up there at the moment, so you might need a key card to open some of the doors."

She hands me the key card and I thank her.

I'm not going to bother trying to crack the passwords to get into their computer system.

I'm only looking for paper files, so that I can get them copied and then get the fuck out of here fast!

A breach of security like this won't go unnoticed for long.

I'm hoping their filing system is similar to ours, otherwise I'm going to have to go through every cabinet drawer to find it.

The door to the CID offices has already been left open by the cleaners, held in place with a plastic door wedge.

I put the key card into my pocket and enter the offices.

Immediately, I can hear the faint hum of a _Henry Hoover_ working hard.

Best be careful.......

Along the corridor, past Adams's office and into the incident room.

I stop and look around, there's no cleaners insight.

The office looks exactly the same as every other one I've ever seen.

Except this one smells more sweaty, like a dole office in mid August!

I spot the filing cabinets along the side wall and I make my way towards them.

Now I just want to get this over and done with!

I cut in between the desks to get there quicker.

Looking for anything worth nicking!

Suddenly I stop! And duck down behind a desk.

One of the computer monitors over the other side of the room is flashing.

It's too dark to see if anyone is over there, so I wait and listen for the noise of fingers tapping the keyboard.

Sixty seconds later, silence.

Even the hoover has stopped.

I stick my head up and gaze hard into the gloom.

The monitor is still flashing, but there doesn't appear to be anyone sitting in front of it.

I stand up, and as I do my knee clicks.

I stifle a moan, and bend it several times to get the movement back into it.

I stand motionless for another thirty seconds, just to be sure they haven't nipped out to nip one off, and are now on their way back.

But no one appears, and now the hoover begins whirring again.

Only this time it's a little bit louder, so the cleaner must be getting closer.

Time to step this up a notch or two.......

Over to the cabinets and give them the once over.

They seem to be organised in a simple chronological order, so I trace back three months and open the corresponding drawer.

Most of the other cases have thick folders, but the Bin man's consists of just a few paper thin files tucked right at the back of the drawer.

I take the files out and flick through them to know their content.

Initial incident report,

A statement from the person who found the body,

Copy of the post-mortem report.

Everything seems to be here.

Straight over to one of the photocopiers to run off my own copies.

When I open the autopsy folder, two photos of the body are stapled inside the cover.

I'll copy those as well, for some hard scrutiny later.

Then I put the copies into my briefcase and put the originals back into the cabinet drawer, in the exact same place and position as I found them.

Back out the way I came, as fast as my feet will carry me.

Slowing down as I get outside Adams's office, I can feel a strong impulse pulling me inside. Before I know it I've reached out, turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Like a wave rolling towards me, I'm hit by the smell of Adams's aftershave.

A real old school nose burner.

Something like Hai Karate or Brut!

I close the door behind me and walk around the desk.

I make sure the blinds are shut tightly and then flick on the desk lamp.

The desktop is obsessively tidy, everything has its place and everything is in that place.

I thumb through some documents in the out tray....just the usual shit you'd find.

Then I open the top drawer.

More useless papers, however sitting on top of them is something a lot more interesting....a recent bank statement.

I pick it up, hold it under the lamp and have a good gander.

No wonder the cunt is so arrogant....the amount of money he's getting paid he can afford to be!

I take out my business mobile and quickly punch the account number and sort code into my contacts, under the name;

Because you never know when they might come in useful....when used with the right passport of course!

Then I put the statement back and close the drawer.

I had the same sort of snoop around Purnell's office some time ago, and luckily I'd made a note of his home phone number.

It's easy for me to remember, because the digits are similar to Kyle's birthday.

28/11/2003.

Just juggle 'em around a bit, take away a zero, add a 5, prefix with the 01827 area code and hey presto.

"Hello."

"Mr Purnell, its John Garrett sir....sorry to disturb you like this."

"What the hell do you want Garrett? Is anything so urgent that it can't wait until we're back in the office tomorrow?"

I can hear him pouring himself a drink and my mouth starts watering.

He's definitely a gin man.

Gordon's,

Not Beefeater.

"I'm afraid not sir, you see it's to do with the Longsdale case. I need a warrant for a property in Leicester by tomorrow morning."

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that you want this case solved, sir."

He breathes heavily down the line.

"I'm going to need more than that Garrett!"

"Please sir, I've done as much as I can on this one. I've asked every question under the sun, and this name that I've got is the only one that keeps coming up time after time."

Silence, then the sound of him swallowing his drink.

I can almost taste it!

"Where are you phoning me from?" he asks, his voice tinged with suspicion.

"I'm at the station sir." I answer, far too quickly.

"And how did you get my home number?"

"I just found it lying around sir."

"You're a fucking bullshitting bastard John, do you know that?" he says it in a slightly hushed tone, and I get the impression that he's not alone.

"Yes sir, if you say so sir."

"I fucking do say so, right...." another throaty swallow. "Fax me over the details and I'll see what I can do." he's reverted back to that controlled anger, the sort where he don't sound too pissed off, but you just know that he is....I fucking love it.

I wish I could do it,

But it's all or nothing with me!

"And John...."

"Yes sir."

"If you value your bollocks, you'll never phone my house again!!"

The line goes dead.

A monotone flatline.

I put down the receiver, sit in Adams's chair and switch on his computer.

There's no password and it just loads straight up on to the desk top.

The desktop image is of five kids, ranging in age from toddlers to teenagers.

It's a proper studio portrait of what I can only assume are his grandchildren.

I take the mouse in my right hand and move the cursor on the screen over the internet explorer icon.

Click the left button twice.

A blank white screen with blue borders opens in the middle of the screen, I move the cursor up to the top right corner and press the maximize button.

The screen flickers, then the blank white page fills the monitor and seconds later the homepage loads up.

I move the cursor up to the search bar and type in; _free hardcore porn_.

Press the enter button.

Moments later a list of websites come up on the screen, I browse through them for a few seconds before clicking on one that claims to have;

 Another window opens with rows of boxes all over the screen, and still images of the videos content.

I scroll down the screen until I see one called; _Anal Angel_.

The woman in the still looks like she's screaming the place down as she gets a good ramming right up her arse.

I double click on the play button and it brings up a full sized black screen with a sort of hamster wheel turning in the middle, under which is the word; Buffering, and the amount of percentage that it has completed so far.

It climbs rapidly to 75%, then stops for about fifteen-to-twenty seconds, then races up to 92%, and five seconds later the video starts playing.

It begins as all porno's do. With a bronzed woman wearing to much make up, sitting on a sofa reading a magazine, seemingly unaware that there is a camera pointing directly at her. Then she realises, and completely out of nowhere she starts licking and sucking her fingers. Then she gets out her tittie's and juggles 'em about a bit. Then she pulls up her skirt, moves her underwear aside and starts playing with herself. And when that gets a bit boring in walks a man, naked from the waist down, already with a stiffy. And then she starts noshing him off.

I don't know what people see in this shit, I really don't?

It don't do nothing for me that's for sure!

I'd prefer a copy of _Readers Wives_ over this shit any day of the week.

But it's not for my sexual gratification anyhow, but more for my amusement.

I skip through all the sucking and the licking, straight to the hard fucking I was promised.

And there it is....the dirty whore is going mental as she's slammed from behind, right up the glory hole.

Thrashing around, screaming and shouting in a Californian accent.

 And he's loving it, the more she asks for it the harder he gives it to her, and the more noise she makes.

I feel sorry for the neighbours.......

I pause the video and spin it back to the beginning of the raucous shaftin'.

Next, I pick up the receiver of Adams's phone and press the speed dial button marked; _Home_.

It's answered quickly, by a common tart who is trying to sound posh.

"Halloo."

This must be Mrs Adams.

I'm picturing a right battle axe....a proper Hyacinth Bucket type.

"Halloo....who is this please?"

A deep sigh comes down the line and hums in my ear like static.

I put the mouth piece next to the monitor speaker, turn up the volume to full and hit play.

Then I stand up, walk out of the office, closing the door behind me.

And as I walk along the corridor I can still hear the screaming, until its drowned out by my own laughter, as I imagine her face getting redder and redder.

Just like her husband's.

"That was quick. You all done now?" the female Sergeant asks when I get back down stairs.

I smile, and pretend that I'm on my phone talking to someone from head office.

She mouths; _'Sorry.'_ and pulls an apologetic face.

I shake my head as if to say; _'Don't worry about it.'_

"Well I've just finished this job, then I've got another one to do tonight, so....I can probably get there at about...." I look at my watch. "It'll be just after twelve I'd imagine, if that's okay?"

"All go ay!" she whispers.

I roll my eyes and move the phone away from my ear, and act like I'm sick of listening to this fictional prick.

"Okay then....yeah....will do....no problem Stu....yes mate....I will....alright....yeah....alright then....I'll see ya tomorrow....bye for now....bye."

I end the fictional call and hand her back the key card.

"The extra money always comes in handy at Christmas though ay?" I say with a chuckle.

"Tell me about it....it just gets more and more expensive every year dun't it?"

"Especially when you've got kids, ay!"

Her face drops a bit, she don't look very comfortable with me mentioning kids.

"Yeah....anyway, I just need your signature on this document if you don't mind. It's just so we know who's been in and out of the building that's all,"

I take my Parker pen out of my top pocket, and put an undecipherable scrawl in the box marked; _Visitors signature_.

"The bill will be coming through the post then will it, ducky?" she asks.

"I assume it will yeah. I don't really worry about that side of things. It's my gaffers head ache not mine, thank God."

She laughs.

I bid her a good night and leave the station.

I jog back to the car and once I'm inside I rip off the false moustache and prop glasses, and then open the glove box, throw them inside and take out the LED torch.

I turn it on, hold it in my teeth, open the briefcase, take out the photocopies and start reading.

I begin with the incident report written by a Police Constable Warren Galton, out of Burslem Station.

I was on patrol in my car around the Sneyd Green area of the city at 13:11, when a message was put out for a unit to attend an incident at an industrial estate off the A50, Waterloo Road. I responded to the message and proceeded to the location at speed. I arrived at the scene at precisely 13:14. I was met there by a Mr. Alfred Francis, who informed me that he had found a young woman in a skip behind his unit. He escorted me to the location, where I saw the woman lying on her back amongst the rubbish. It was clear that she was already deceased. Her head was turned toward her left shoulder, her arms were by her side and her legs were spread apart. She had apparently been posed in this position. I also noted that she had sustained substantial damage to her face.

 I could find no evidence as to how she had come to be within the skip, nor any traces of blood in the immediate vicinity. I immediately returned to my vehicle and requested further assistance. I then secured the area until Detectives and Forensic Officers arrived, then helped take statements from all persons present at the time.

I don't bother with the so-called witness statements, and so move straight on to the autopsy, conducted by a Dr. Phillip Jones.

The body arrived in my mortuary at half past six in the evening. The first thing I did was write a detailed description of the condition of the corpse at the time that it was given into my care. This I do for my personal records, and also for use in any court case which may follow. (A transcript of this description is available from my office upon request, should it be needed to further help the investigation.)

I then carefully removed the clothes from the body and preserved them in evidence bags to maintain their Forensic integrity. Rigor mortis was well set in. She had been dead for less than twenty-four hours. After washing the body I made an initial examination, finding several greenish coloured bruises and small abrasions on the legs and arms. I concluded that these were mostly of an older date, maybe a week or so prior to her death. I also found some evidence of chemical burns on the skin of the upper inner thighs, labium and the inner walls of the vagina. There were many other injuries to the upper torso, made by a long knife of about eight to ten inches in length. These wounds were inflicted into the upper back of the victim with such ferocity that they penetrated all tissue, and pierced her bones. Some even exited through the front of the torso around the shoulders and below the breasts.

It is impossible to say how many separate stab wounds there are, as many have received multiple penetrations. If these injuries were inflicted at the scene I would expect there to be a significant quantity of blood around the body, and also the general area. My attention was then drawn to the face, which had been very badly mutilated.

 The lips have been completely removed with a smaller, sharper blade. Possibly a surgical instrument similar to a scalpel. The cut originates above the upper lip in the centre of the philtrum, and runs from right to left in one continuous cut that would have produced an unbroken ring of skin.

The nose was removed with the same instrument. The initial cut being made to the bridge of the nose and running along the nasal bone, behind the cartilage of the septum and continuing around the ethmoid bone and the vomer bone, before the entire structure of the nose was removed.

The ears, on both sides have also been completely detached, most likely using a pair of scissors. The initial cut was made to the top of the auricle and goes all the way down to the lobe.

None of these appendages were found with the body, nor by myself during the examination.

This leads me to conclude that the offender has taken them with him from the scene.

I do not believe that the offender would need any medical knowledge to enable him to have removed these body parts, but I am of the firm belief that he has done something very similar before, as all the cuts are so steady and clean.

The premeditation of the offender is clear as illustrated by the various tools bought to the scene for each task. The offenders intention to mutilate the body is unquestionable.

There is also evidence that she may still have been alive when the mutilations occurred. And also that the offender may have sustained several minor injuries during this process.

The evidence is clear.

I don't need to go on any further to know what he found next.

The rest of the report is just full of medical jargon I don't really understand anyway.

Descriptions of the organs, weight and condition.

The stomach contents,

How much piss she had in her bladder,

Whether she needed a shit or not!

But oddly, there is no mention of her tongue being removed.

Maybe it's his new thing? And Paulina was the first to get this new treatment?

I skip to Dr Jones's conclusions at the end of the report.

I can see no practical use for any of the parts that were taken away by the offender.

The victim put up very little in terms of a struggle and I feel sure that she was taken by surprise from behind, more than likely during an act of sexual intercourse.

 I also believe this to be solely the work of one individual. The burns inflicted to the inner and outer areas of the genitalia appears to be a very effective and well practised method by the offender to obliterate his Deoxyribonucleic acid.

There is also no possible way that any of these wounds could have been self inflicted.

No shit Sherlock.......

Adams is so full of crap, that it must come shooting out his nose every time he sneezes!

I'd only have to breath a single word of this to Dan or Purnell, and almost overnight, the Staffordshire Constabulary would be absorbed into the West Midlands Force.

That would really piss Adams off, then he'd become an even smaller fish in a much bigger pond.

But that's all politics, and I always keep my nose right out of politics.

I've never once voted for anything, not a general election, nor even just a show of hands to see who was going to go to the all night garage for some munchies!

Fuck Adams any way....if he's not interested in finding out more about this, then I am.

I look at the photocopied photos, which haven't turned out to good.

Their all overexposed and blotchy, no use to me.

I put all the copied documents back into the suitcase and then stick the case in the passenger footwell.

Then, I have a swally of my water, light up a cigarette and head off to Burslem.

The industrial estate has a metal gate across the entrance, no security guard and very few CCTV cameras.

Some people never learn.......

I get out the car into a cold night air that is turning slightly misty.

I walk over to the gate.

It's not padlocked, so I slide the bolt across and push it open.

As I'm going back to the car it suddenly strikes me that he must have done the exact same thing when he came here.

I'm actually walking in his footsteps,

Which fills me a sense of dread and exhilaration, both in equal measures.

I drive through the open gates and move along slowly. Letting my headlights illuminate everything in front of me, so there are no nasty surprises.

I'm getting an eerie feeling, the one where you feel like you've been in the exact same place before.

Maybe in another life?

Then again, I probably have.

This could just be any other industrial estate, anywhere else in the country.

They all look the bleeding same don't they!

I shake it off and come to a stop in front of the skips and bins, which are lined up along a brick wall that backs on to a wooded area.

I leave the headlights blazing, pick up the torch off the passenger seat, turn it on and then get out.

A foreboding shiver goes down my spine as I rake the torch light across the dark ground, at the edge of the headlight beams.

Then up the wall, where s _omething catches my eye....but then again, perhaps it's just the way the shadows are falling._

_Although, it appears to me as if something has been scrubbed off of the brickwork._

_I walk over to have a closer look, and yeah, it definitely appears to me that some of the bricks are cleaner than those around them. Like they have been washed off._

_I turn the torch light to the floor and can just about make out some faint brown spots on the ground. Drops of paint maybe?_

_You can never get rid of everything.......can you......._

Next I turn my attention to the skips.

There are three of them.

All rectangular and open topped.

About 10 ft long and painted submarine yellow, most of which has flaked off.

More industrial than the type you would hire and have dropped off outside your house, for when you decided to clear out your garage or re-do the patio.

And in a completely different league to the ones behind the Heath Town flats, which only came up to my chest.

These stand about 7 ft tall, and have a ladder welded on to the back door.

I climb up the ladder of the middle skip and peer over the edge, down on a load of swarf and scrap metal.

I look into the skip to my right, its half full with broken pallets and off cuts of wood.

The skip to the left is crammed with cardboard boxes, bits of packaging and lengths of used shrink wrap.

That's the one she was found in.

I jump off the back of the skip, and just then I hear a noise from behind one of the smaller bins near the back of the units.

I stop and take a few deep breaths.

It's probably just a stray cat, or a fox or something?

Now man up and stop being a silly cunt.......

I can't help but think about how he would have struggled to get her into there.

He must have carried her up on his shoulder in a fireman's lift and then climbed into the skip with her, and posed her body in the way he wanted it to be found.

There's that fucking noise again!

This time accompanied by what sounded like a yelp!

I hold the torch up at shoulder height and start looking for the reflection of an animal's eyes.

Like when I used to go lamping for rabbits with my Dad.

I edge forward slowly, toward the wheelie bins where the noise came from. As I get closer I hear a scuffing sound.

I bend down and take out the switchblade I keep strapped to my ankle.

I stop in front of the bins, flick open the blade and get ready to stab whatever lurks behind it.

Then, I step aside quickly so it has no time to react and find myself looking down at a bloke rolling on the floor in agony. He's biting the collar of his jacket and clutching his knee.

It seems as though he has fallen off the wall while he was trying to scramble over it, probably just after I'd pulled up.

I reach down, grab the back of his collar and drag him over to the front of my car, into the headlight beam and throw him up against the middle skip.

I turn off the torch and put it in my pocket. Then I jam my left hand into his throat and wrap my fingers around his neck.

He screams.

His breath smells like someone has done a shit on a gas leak!

I gob the saliva that was in my mouth when I breathed in the foul stench right back into his acned face.

"I..I...I'm sorry....I'm sorr..r..ry!" he stutters and holds up his hands, showing me dirty palms with brown crud ground into the creases.

"Who the fucking hell are ya?" I snarl. "And what the fuck are you doing here?"

"P..please....I..I didn't see anything....I swear, just please let me go!" he screws his eyes tightly shut.

I slap the slag hard around the face, crimsoning his skin.

"I..I...I mean it....I'll go right now....I won't even look at you."

I move my head back and to the side, so I don't get another blast of his halitosis. Then I deliver a left hook under his elbow, right into his kidneys.

He'll be pissing blood for the next fortnight.......

The slag bends double and goes limp, I lift him up with the hand I've still got clasped on his throat.

Seconds later his muscles go tense all at once.

Something about this greasy turd reminds me of myself, like when you catch a fleeting glimpse of yourself in a mirror, it's only out the corner of your eye but you recognise yourself instantly.

I pray it's just a trick of the light!

"Now what the fuck are you doing out here you bastard? " I squeeze his wind pipe hard.

"I..I...I.." I have to loosen my grip slightly, before he chokes. "I..I fucking know mate I should have learned my lesson after the first time....but I never thought you'd come back mate I swear! P..p.p.please, I just want to go home now....I..I..I'll never come back here again I promise ya!"

What the fuck is this prat talking about?

"OPEN YOUR EYES....OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!"

He shakes his head, shedding fat tears off his pock marked cheeks.

"FUCKING DO IT, OR I'LL STICK THIS RIGHT INTO YA!"

I press the knife against his chest, right above his heart, and push it through his clothing until he can feel the point of the blade cutting into his skin.

His head rolls forward and momentarily he goes limp again, then he snaps back and his eyelids blink open.

The whites of his eyes are large, but the pupils are so small....almost unnatural.

"Oh fuckin' hell," he cries. "I didn't want to see your face....why did you make me do it?"

"Who do you think I am?" I grunt.

I'm really starting to get flustered now myself.

"I just thought you were someone fly tipping mate I promise, I never said nothing to anyone, please believe me....I didn't even see the girl....swear to god!"

I let go of him and stagger back.

He slides down the skip to the ground and goes back to nursing his knee.

I look down at him, the steam from my heavy breaths swirling in front of my eyes, almost blotting him out.

Then my eyes glass over and I think about what he's just said to me.

"H..How do you know me?" I ask, secretly not wanting to know.

"I saw your car pull up that night, and I watched you."

"Watched me do what?"

"Don't you remember?" he laughs.

I shake my head and bark;

"WHAT DID YOU SEE ME DO?"

"I saw you get her out of the boot of the car, and take her over to the skip. I couldn't make out what you did next. Then I waited for you to leave."

"How can you be sure it was me?"

"Well if it weren't you it was your twin brother!"

"Did you see my face clearly?"

He doesn't answer me.

This wanker is making me paranoid!!

What if you really are the Bin man.......

I might finally be a psychopath!!

They warned you this might happen.......

That something or someone else would take me over!!

He has.......and now he's making you kill these women.......

What if I'm having vacant episodes or blackouts?

Perhaps I've always been like this!

Something similar did happen to me years back....when I was seventeen!

I came home from a night out with blood all over my trousers, and I had no recollection of how it had got there!

I thought I might have been in a fight or something, but there weren't a mark on me!

No cuts, no bruises, nothing at all!

When Mom found the trousers stuffed right to the bottom of the wash basket she asked me what stain was? I told her it was chilli sauce....I prayed to God it was just chilli sauce!

For weeks and weeks I searched the local newspapers looking for a report of something that might relate to it, or make me remember what had occurred....but I never found nothing to explain how the blood had actually gotten there!

So, I buried it deep down inside and tried to forget about it! Eventually turning it into a humorous story I told after a few too many drinks.

But what if it was more?

What if it was a warning of things to come?

"What were you doing here that night anyway?" I ask.

"I come here to watch the prostitutes with their clients. Sometimes, I can get right up to the cars and look through the windows without 'em even seeing me."

He says it like it's something to be proud of.

"What did you do after I'd left?"

"I went over to look at what you'd put in the skip."

"And?"

"And I thought it was beautiful! I just stood there looking at her....I..I wanted to get in and lie with her, but I couldn't,"

There's a malevolent look of sexual excitement in his eyes, like a wild animal playing with its prey.

"Why? Have you got another one with ya? Can I have a look at her before you put her in the skip?"

What he's saying to me can't be true.......I mustn't listen to his lies!

Because if I do, I may as well just go straight home and end it all tonight!

"I don't believe you," I say.

He laughs again, only harder this time, more of a cackle.

"Your nothing but a filthy cunt you are! I bet you were wanking yourself off as you watched him, and then when he was gone you went over to the skip and finished yourself off while looking at her didn't ya....DIDN'T YA?"

Before I know what I'm doing I start laying into him with my fists and feet.

And when his head falls to the ground I start stomping on it with my heel.

And stomping,

And cracking!

And stomping,

And squelching!

And stomping.

Until his skull is completely shattered, and his slag face is all caved in.

I stumble back and sit on my bonnet, and try to compose myself.

In through the nose and out through the mouth.......

But it's as if there ain't enough oxygen in the atmosphere for me to breath.

He's the first I've ever done without using a tool!

My 8th in the past four years, and my 9th altogether.

I close my eyes and concentrate, hoping this is all just one of my fucked up dreams.

That when I open 'em I'll be lying in my bed, fringe plastered to my forehead with sweat.

But, when I do open my eyes again I'm still there. Still glaring down at a dead piece of meat!

Brown blood is bubbling from what was once his mouth.

And one of his eyes, I can't tell which side it's from, is dangling out of his head on a stringy, bluish red vein.

Now what the fuck do I do?

I daren't leave him here, do I?

Two bodies found in the same location within a few months of each other....not a chance!

I could just stick him in a skip and set it alight I suppose, they might think he was a tramp who'd fell asleep with a lit cigarette or something?

I decide against that quickly, I don't want to draw any unnecessary attention toward this place.

I get in the car, start her up, turn her around and reverse her back. Getting as near as I can to the dead slag.

I pop open the boot and get out, and walk to the back of the car and slip on the Berghaus waterproof jacket I always keep in there.

Just in case I breakdown, or have to change a flat tyre.

Or dispose of the odd corpse here and there.......

I zip it up, then go over to the far skip and grab out a large piece of shrink wrap.

I stretch the shrink wrap on the ground and flattened out the wrinkles.

It's more than big enough for the body.

Next, I turn him over onto it.

Luckily the back of his head is still intact, so other than the claret leaking from his face ( _which is now quite literally a mush_ ) there won't be to much more mess.

I roll him up into a sausage roll, then twist the excess shrink wrap at either end, so that now he looks more like some sort of grotesque Christmas cracker.

Then I pick him up and drop him into the boot.

A temporary coffin until I can find him something more permanent, and hopefully that'll be quite soon! Because the last one I did was in there for nearly a fortnight!

And he was well fucking ripe by the time I eventually got rid of him.

Still can't get rid of the smell though.......can you.......

In the end, I had to chop him to pieces in my garage.

But I found that a very hard thing to do, and it's not something I'm in any hurry to do again!

I encased his head in a bucket of concrete and threw it into the canal.

I scattered the dismembered body parts all over the county.

None of which have been found yet, at least not to my knowledge.

I suppose I could simply dump this slag somewhere in Leicester? But then again no, I've got enough to do there tonight.

And besides, I think I've already got the perfect place in mind, where he might never be found....hopefully!

Before I leave I take my emergency bottle of Russian standard from its secret compartment and crack it open.

I take a few swigs and then another bigger gulp.

I hold the liquid in my mouth until it starts to sting the inside of my cheeks.

I swallow it and it numbs my prickly throat as it goes down.

I use the other half of the bottle to rinse the blood and phlegm off my shoes, and to wash away the gore on the ground.

Then, I throw the empty bottle into the air above the scrap metal skip and wait until I hear it land inside and smash into a thousand pieces.

I get into the driver's seat and close the door.

Then, I reach down under the passenger seat and pull out the oily rag containing the .38.

I put it on the passenger seat.

I open the briefcase and take out the photocopied papers, then close the case and put it back into the footwell.

I take out my zippo and light a cigarette, then I put the papers into the flame until they catch fire.

I hold them out of my window, watching them turn to ashes and float away with the wind.

I'll phone Dan later, when he's asleep. And I'll leave him a message saying that I wasn't able to get hold of the Stoke files for him after all.

Then, when all the paper has burned away I drive off, as unhurriedly as I had done when I'd arrived.

