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Jim the dogsbody. A man with a van. Cleaner of other people’s dirty work.
Main line of business? Men. Bad men. Men he couldn’t care less about. Men who deserved to die.
But a woman? And more to the point, a woman he’d respected. A brave woman who’d deserved better than to be fried like a kipper.
She peered down at a man in uniform, his face youthful and lean. The glossy black-and-white finish to the print dated it seventies or early eighties. She knew who the officer was – and why these men wanted him. His name was Tanner. Frank Tanner. At least, that was his name in 1984. A good cop. And what is more, a witness, like her, to wicked men like her captors.
He lifted the corpse into the back of his van, the smell of muck heavy in the air, sheep bleating in the fields beyond. He hated f
