The killer called Frankie knew that he had to get rid of the battered Humber. It was too noticeable. Too conspicuous. Especially with the right headlamp dangling down and clanking like that, it was bound to raise suspicions.
And he knew that by now the police would have set up road-blocks on all the major roads out of West Garside leading to Sheffield, Leeds, or Manchester.
He pulled into a layby, got out, took a penknife from his pocket and sawed away at the wires holding the lamp, tossing it into the backseat when it came free.
He looked around him but had no idea where he was, somewhere up in the hills that was for sure. What the hell was the driver doing bringing us out here in the middle of nowhere where even every cow in the field looks askance at you? Frankie was a city boy, he
