TWENTY-FIVE
David Llewellyn was cleaning his teeth prior to donning his pyjamas for an early night when the telephone rang.
‘You’d better get that,’ his wife Sylvia called from the bedroom. ‘It’s bound to be for you.’
She was right of course. He knew as he lifted the receiver that he could wave goodbye to the early appointment with his pillow.
‘Sunderland, here, sir,’ announced the tinny voice at the other end. ‘There’s been another murder. A young woman. Cut about something shocking. Looks like it’s Northcote’s work all right. She was found on Copenhagen Street, just off the Caledonian Road down by King’s Cross. One of the local tarts stumbled over the body.’
Llewellyn gave a little groan as he felt the chill hand of fear grip him. It was happening all over again. The same nightmare,
