COLD KILL. Neil White

his tired old Triumph Stag.

      He looked at the estate through his windscreen. It was nearly six, and he saw people returning from work, some of the ones he had seen earlier in the day. There were some kids ahead, in their late teens, sitting on bikes and watching young girls walk past with their prams. The soft glow of a cigarette passed between them, although from the way their fingers snapped for their turn it seemed that the paper contained more than just tobacco. People who spotted them in time crossed over when they got near. The tallest of the group leaned to talk into a white van that had pulled up alongside them. It was the same security van Jack had seen earlier. He noticed letters on the side this time: DR Security.

      Jack put his laptop away and strapped the bag over his shoulder as he climbed out of his car. There was no point in putting it into his car boot, because the group had seen it. He pulled out his voice recorder and hovered near the shops. Every time someone came near, Jack asked if he could speak to them about the problems on the estate, or whether the police were doing enough, but no one seemed keen. They just rushed into the shop or kept on walking. It looked like he was going to have to do the door-to-door stuff. He glanced over to the group again. They were still watching him.

      Jack headed away from the shops and towards the first cul-de-sac. He was about to knock on the first door when he heard the sound of tyres scraping along the kerb behind him. As Jack looked around, he saw that it was the white security van.

      ‘Can we help you?’ the driver said through the open window, his hands fat around the steering wheel.

      Jack bent down to his level, and said, ‘No, I’m fine.’

      The driver and his companion were just as Jack expected, bulky and wide-necked and tattooed.

      ‘I’ll put it a different way,’ the driver said. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Just doing my thing,’ Jack said.

      ‘Which is what?’

      ‘It’s my thing, not yours, which sort of ends the conversation,’ Jack said, and then he turned to walk away.

      Jack didn’t expect the conversation to end there, but he had to let them know that he wasn’t intimidated.

      ‘No, it doesn’t,’ said a different voice.

      Jack turned around and saw that they were both out of the van now. They were dressed identically: black trousers and black silk jackets, with hair shaved to the scalp. The second man was much shorter than the driver, and one thing Jack had learned from seeing drunken pub fights is that the big man will hurt you the most, but the little man is more likely to start the fight.

      ‘Okay, let’s talk,’ Jack said. ‘Who pays for your services?’

      The two men exchanged glances, less confident now. ‘What do you mean?’ the taller one said.

      ‘Just that,’ Jack said, and he gestured around him. ‘These people aren’t millionaires, but they’ve got you two looking after them. The police come free. Why you?’

      ‘We’re here all the time,’ the tall one said again. ‘The police only ever come round with search warrants or to arrest people. You never see them just looking after people.’

      ‘Very noble of you,’ Jack said. ‘Who is DR?’

      The two men exchanged glances again, until the taller one said, ‘Look it up, if you’re that interested.’

      Jack nodded. ‘I think I am. Thank you.’

      ‘Where are you going now?’

      ‘Like I said, I’m just doing my thing,’ Jack said. ‘If you want to follow me, well, that’s your choice. That’s what they pay you for, I suppose.’

      ‘You can’t go knocking on doors,’ the smaller one said.

      ‘If I pull out an axe, you can earn your money, but until then I’ll make my own choices.’ Jack flashed them a grin. ‘You can be in the story if you like.’

      The small one scowled and clenched his fists, but the big one just put a hand on his elbow, to keep him in check.

      ‘If we get any complaints, we’ll see you again.’

      ‘Understand one thing,’ Jack said, stepping closer, stopping only when he could smell the staleness of their breath. ‘You have no power to do anything. You can’t speak to me, you can’t escort me anywhere, and you cannot stop me doing my job.’

      Jack turned away and carried on walking. He expected to hear footsteps coming after him, but he didn’t, and eventually he heard their van start up and head off.

      Jack was starting to think that the estate could be a dangerous place.

      Laura and Joe were on their way to the home of the first victim when Laura glanced at her watch and realised how late it was getting.

      ‘Bobby?’ Joe asked.

      ‘He’s gone to a friend’s house, so he’ll be all right for now.’

      ‘But you’re still worried about him,’ Joe said.

      Laura gave a weary smile. ‘I’m his mother. I’m supposed to be there for him.’

      ‘What about Jack? Can’t he do more?’

      ‘He does a lot, but I don’t want Bobby to become a chore.’

      ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get home to him,’ Joe said, and then he smiled. ‘Maybe not today, though.’

      ‘And what about you, and the rest of the team?’ she said. ‘What about your home lives?’

      Joe raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he kept his eyes on the road before eventually saying, ‘My home life is best kept there, at home.’

      Laura took the hint and didn’t probe any further.

      ‘We’ll probably go for a drink later on,’ he said, and looked over at Laura. ‘You could always join us.’

      Laura pulled a face. ‘I was never any good at the team bonding thing,’ she said.

      ‘Too macho?’

      ‘Well, maybe, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t care about the team.’

      ‘That’s not how I meant it.’

      ‘It’s how it feels though,’ Laura said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it would be your scene either.’

      ‘Why’s that?’

      ‘It sounds all a bit too Sweeney for you,’ she said.

      He laughed. ‘We all need to unwind sometimes, and like it or not, those are my friends. And yours.’

      ‘It was an observation, not a criticism,’ Laura said, and then turned to look out of the window. She watched as the main road out of Blackley turned into a stream of warehouses and car showrooms. A large supermarket dominated one side, and then soon after Joe swung his car into a street of tall Victorian houses, with large sash windows and dark millstone fronts. They wound their way around curving streets, along tree-lined avenues, the kerbsides dominated by new cars, all large and polished.

      They stopped outside the Corley house, and as they got out, Laura smoothed down her suit jacket and reminded herself of the purpose of the visit. Take it easy. Play it like a sympathy visit. Don’t let on that Mike Corley had been spotted at the murder scene and see if he volunteers it.

      They walked up the short path and were about to ring the doorbell when the door opened. They were confronted by a large man with a crew cut whose scalp bore faint scars that looked like the remnants of a knife attack. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black combat pants, almost police-style, except for the thick gold chain around his neck.

      He stopped when he saw them, surprised, but then he eyed Laura up and down, before he looked back into the house.

      ‘There’s