Free Psycho Alley by Nick Oldham

face to face with Debbie Black, who was standing right behind him, half a pint in one hand, cigarette dangling from the fingers of her other. He hadn’t clocked her on entry.
    She gave him a half-cocked smile which he found rather attractive.
    â€˜Boss,’ she said. ‘Am I on the team?’
    â€˜I’ll swing it.’ He sipped his lager, then took a deep draft. It tasted amazingly wonderful, feeling like it was shooting through his lungs and stomach and every capillary. ‘Thought you only smoked at post mortems?’
    â€˜I lied.’ She took a deep draw, held it in for what were obviously a few sweet moments, then exhaled upwards through pursed lips, reminding Henry of the pathologist’s observations of a smoking woman. She reached past Henry, deliberately closing in on him, and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the bar. To Henry, admittedly not a smoker, it seemed to take rather longer than normal to extinguish a cigarette, but he wasn’t complaining. Even though he was wearing his windjammer, he could feel Debbie’s generous curves up against him. He swallowed. She moved back, but remained well within his space, her eyes roving all over his face, completely taking him in.
    Henry’s heart was pounding again, blood pressure rising.
    She smiled in a way he did not understand and stepped further back, having done exactly what she had intended to do to him.
    â€˜Can we talk?’
    â€˜Sure,’ he said.
    â€˜It’s quiet at the far end of the room.’ She turned, he followed at a limp, though for some reason his leg didn’t seem to be hurting him half as much now.
    Squashed down snugly on a bench seat in one corner of the bar next to each other, they could converse without having to shout too loudly.
    â€˜Think we’ll get him?’ she asked, her lips close to his ear.
    â€˜For sure.’
    â€˜I want to be part of it.’
    â€˜You will be.’
    â€˜He deserves stringing up, the molesting, murdering bastard.’
    Henry nodded in agreement, though the words jarred in his ear.
    â€˜Really got to me, that PM.’
    â€˜Nothing to be ashamed of. They often do get to you. You’re only human,’ Henry said with empathy.
    â€˜Did it get to you? It didn’t seem to.’
    â€˜They all do,’ he admitted. ‘Nowadays more than ever. Must be an age thing.’
    â€˜And just how old are you?’
    Henry gave her a sidelong and told her. She raised an eyebrow in surprise and said, ‘You don’t look it.’
    He guffawed at the compliment and, flattered, took a red-faced swig of his Stella.
    The street outside the pub was busy with foot traffic, typical of a Saturday night in Blackpool. Music from bars drifted in the wind which whipped down the gap between the buildings. It was not a well-lit street, though, and there were plenty of places in the shadows in which a person could secrete themselves.
    A dark figure stood unseen in a doorway which reeked of stale urine.
    The figure waited patiently.
    When last orders were called, Henry had just reached the bottom of his beer glass, amazed at his record: that must have been one of the longest lasting pints he had ever drunk.
    â€˜Can I buy you another?’
    â€˜No, thanks. I need to get home,’ he said and made to stand up.
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜No – honestly. I’m injured, old and knackered, and I need my bed.’
    Debbie smiled and stood up with him. ‘I’ll walk up to the car park with you.’
    With a wave at the other detectives, who seemed to have settled in for a session, he and Debbie left the pub, walking quickly across the street and into the police garage using a swipe card to gain entry.
    The figure in the doorway stepped back into deeper blackness and watched the two of them enter the police building.
    The person’s breathing became shallow and juddery at the sight of Henry Christie, a man loathed beyond