Scrapper skipped through the details on her life and focused on anything to do with the forensics. But, as usual, the police were being very cagey with the details, so as not to tip off the culprit.
As he sat there, spooning in the last of his cornflakes, Scrapper felt an icy trickle of sweat slide down his back.
He shrugged it off and threw the paper to one side.
There was nothing to link him to the old woman’s murder – he was no i***t.
He knew his fingerprints were on file from when he went into Feltham. They never destroyed them, no matter what his brief had said. Besides, it was not that long ago, so the chances were he was definitely still in the system.
But he had worn gloves and kept them on throughout. Although, now he came to think of it, they were old and worn, so what if he
