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impact, his body contorting out of shape. The car seemed to scoop him up, taking his legs from underneath him, driving on as his right shoulder smacked into the bonnet. His head, hat still in place at that moment, smashed into the windscreen, indenting it, and his whole body flicked up like a frog being thrown from a spade. He cartwheeled across the roof of the car, his right arm snapping, his cane spinning through the air, his legs flipping upwards, the car passing on under him. He cleared the vehicle and from a height of about twelve feet, crashed head first into the roadway.
    In the mouth of the alley, the two boys stood mesmerized by the incident. They could see the old man lying on the road, broken, but moving, twitching. They were overwhelmed by the violence of the impact that had taken the breath out of their bodies. They were not prepared for what happened next.
    The Volvo braked sharply ten metres ahead of the man. The engine revved. Then suddenly it reversed at speed, swerving wildly, engine screaming.
    Raising his head slightly, the old man saw what was coming. The rear bumper of the car struck him and the back wheels crushed him, the car rising as though it was going over a speed hump. And it kept going, the front wheels doing the same, making the man writhe obscenely.
    Still it wasn’t finished. The engine revved again, the car lurched forwards and mounted him again, front wheels, then back.
    He must have been dead by now, his brittle bones and internal organs crushed. The car stopped and for one terrible moment they were certain it was going to reverse over him again.
    The older one stepped forward, but the younger one held him back, something telling him it wasn’t over.
    Why had the car stopped?
    If this was a hit-and-run, the driver having made certain there was no living witness to his crime, why hadn’t he gone, left the scene? The old man was dead, why hesitate?
    The younger boy ducked instinctively, stepping back into the darkness as the questions barraging through his brain were answered.
    A man got out of the passenger door of the Volvo – the first realization to the boy that there were two people in the car.
    It was a man, casually dressed, zip-up top, jeans, trainers, dark-haired, thirties, maybe. He walked back to where the old man lay in the road, unmoving, and bent to inspect him. Then the boys saw what he had in his hands, the fact registering with them at exactly the same instant.
    A handgun of some sort. Neither could have said whether it was a revolver or pistol, but both saw the bulbous silencer fitted on to the barrel.
    The gun was held at the man’s side and as he bent over, it angled at the old man’s head and the trigger was pulled twice. The old man’s head jerked as the bullets entered it.
    The older boy, Rory, stepped into the light. ‘Hey!’ he called.
    The man bending over the body turned his head and looked in his direction. There was a flash, lighting up his face.
    He rose slowly, confidently and the gun came up.
    The younger boy grabbed Rory’s arm and dragged him back into the alley, screaming ‘Run, run.’
    They turned and sprinted away in the direction they’d come from, keeping low in the shadows, both expecting to feel the wham of a bullet in the back of the head.

THREE
    â€˜ H ow many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t kill her.’
    The prisoner smashed his fist on to the interview room table and glowered angrily at Detective Superintendent Henry Christie, his face now a blotchy red, neck sinews tight as wire. There had been a full day of denials and an increasingly tense and confrontational atmosphere as Henry had relentlessly twisted the screw, turning an initially placid suspect into one who seethed and showed his true colours. A man unable to contain rage.
    Henry was now feeling jaded by the process, but still wanted to push on, knowing the momentum of an interview was invaluable. However, the man’s