The Cromwell Factor

By David George Lawrence

Dan Jackson’s humdrum life is thrown into turmoil when a young scientist develops a revolutionary mind-control compound, designed to counter soaring crime levels on Britain’s streets. It is stolen by thieves who immediately commit suicide and the scientist quickly disappears, leaving Dan, ex-girlfriend Sandra and conspiracy-nut Conor pursued for his formula across the country by a quasi-government agency, corrupt police and a psychotic gangland enforcer.

As they are slowly exposed to the sickening reality of Britain in 2019, they realise there is nothing callous Prime Minister Craig Davison won’t do to stay in power and that they must never let him get his hands on the formula. Having witnessed the brutal repression of free speech and murder of peaceful protesters, the motley group of fugitives soon face a stark choice - to either flee and hope CYFA agents never find them or assassinate the beating heart of corruption in the country.

The Cromwell Factor is a fictional story set in a not-too-distant dystopian Britain, following the lives of an amoral Prime Minister and one of the millions suffering under his corrupt premiership. A rollercoaster tale set in a time when politicians stand for everything and nothing, public servants are increasingly unaccountable and ordinary people are ever more marginalised; this is a pulsating thriller with present-day parallels many readers will readily identify with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David George Lawrence
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311804952

Book preview

Chapter 1

The egg hit him square in the face. To the echo of a gun shot.

The Prime Minister had been passionately distancing himself from the latest scandal enveloping his premiership. Professionally inflecting and gesticulating – the conductor orchestrating an impotent press pit – he weaved a familiar tune before predictably rounding on his accusers.

Craig Davison was every bit the PR man made good. His policies all bent with the wind; he stood for everything and nothing, and he had been Prime Minister four long years.

Of the matter in hand, the close personal association and public backing of an international fraudster who’d stolen millions from vulnerable investors, his script had been carefully chosen. There may even have been an apology in there during early drafts but it was long gone now and littered with words like ‘regrettable’ and ‘badly advised’, negating any personal responsibility. Davison had perfected the art of speaking passionately while saying nothing, but it was slowly becoming clear the people had had enough.

He wiped the egg from his face and smiled defiantly as he picked himself from under the scrum of security. Despite the panic in the thronging town hall crowd, there was a static pocket just yards from the stage ringed by delegates staring down on a sixteen-year-old boy. Seconds after throwing the harmless missile, the face which had never learned to shave was fixed in a death mask of disbelief.

In days gone by this might have been a scandal to rock the government to its core; a young student shot in the head for daring to protest about the latest tuition fee rise. But this was a different Britain to the one even the boy had been born into. In just a few short years it had become illegal to stage any protest, civil liberties were routinely abused in the name of fighting a non-existent terrorist threat and the press were tethered under a suffocating yoke. This one-time world-leading nation now covertly controlled by the billionaire benefactors who ran the political puppet show once called democracy.

For the weary people of Britain there was a sad inevitability of the cover-up that followed the incident. Just thirty years earlier a Cabinet minister had traded blows with his assailant in similar circumstances; the political point of which being lost in a sea of headlines and panel show witticisms. But this was Britain in 2019 and everything fell conveniently into place. There was grainy CCTV evidence of the boy talking to a convicted terrorist, one-time friends came forward to enthusiastically denounce his extremist ideas and the post-mortem found gunpowder residue in the creases of his left palm; all evidence he’d been involved in a plot to assassinate the Prime Minister.

The traces found were so minute that they could have come from a party popper or cap gun – and his family fervently contested they were ever there in the first place. But like anyone questioning the system, their protests were universally shunned and even mocked by the castrated media.

Of course the whole thing made no sense at all. The boy had no criminal past, was a straight-A student and had until recently been a church volunteer. And how many successful assassinations had ever been carried out by egg?

Like thousands of other young people, Derek Connolly had seen his future sabotaged by an about-turn on election promises. There had been illegal demonstrations and hundreds of arrests over a fee rise that would leave most working class students in debt half their lives. But the institutional closing of ranks after Derek’s death gave a sharp reminder of the corrupt state of the nation, and the dangers of any form of protest. Less than a century after the suffragettes won democratic equality, the people of Britain had less freedom and were more oppressed than ever.

Chapter 2

The scene outside the inquest was mayhem. Dozens of people stood in the rain, shouting angrily behind the media guard of honour flanking the Greater London Police Commander on the court steps. Droplets formed on the peak of his cap as he concluded the short speech, skilfully mourning the tragic loss of a young life to extremism. The jostling pack thrust microphones and dictaphones under his nose but he retreated inside without further word.

The Channel Six reporter had his work cut out as the cordon behind him swayed in its final throes to cries of murderer!, but he was every inch the pro as he recounted events inside to the camera. In addition to the damning CCTV images of the boy consorting with a known terrorist on a train, there were the gunpowder traces and questionable array of home brew chemicals found on the family allotment.

The reporter was suddenly knocked aside as the cordon broke and riot police swept in, dragging away several protestors. He recovered and seamlessly continued, saying the marksman, Officer AZ, deeply regretted the outcome and had only intended to disarm the boy. He had since been on extended compassionate leave and might never return to armed response, though his actions had been fully exonerated.

There were screams of anger as the reporter added that the Prime Minister had written to the Greater London Police Commander recommending an award for gallantry; the clamour partially quelled as more riot shields pushed into the fray and sent several sprawling.

The camera suddenly switched to the court entrance. An elderly couple slowly descended the cold steps in a tragic embrace, shielding each other as best they could as they left court with only bitter injustice for their son. The pack showed little mercy as the lights and sound booms intruded on their grief from all angles.

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A distracted Dan Jackson turned the TV off and drummed the table, looking impatiently at a half-written document on his laptop. It was harder than ever to find work with over five million unemployed and it was daunting to somehow make his CV stand out above a thousand others. Official data claimed the figure had dipped under two but this was one lie the endless spin of Davison’s government could not hide; given the decimation of manufacturing, the stark increase in state pension age, the tens of thousands forced to work for benefits and those like Dan on zero-hours contracts.

Dan was thirty-two going on forty; the creases of his face and bags under his eyes giving him a weary look that was far from complimentary. With gaunt features and short dark hair showing wisps of grey, he could maybe even pass for forty-five. Too many late nights and missed mornings; too much junk food and alcohol; too little exercise, and no prospect of a career: he was poster-boy for a jilted generation. Dan hadn’t always been like this, but the hammer had come down hard on society’s lower reaches under successive governments and the vulnerable had little juice left to squeeze.

Dan looked impatiently around his spartan flat for inspiration but the bare walls offered little, save for the framed photograph of him and friends from university days. He looked quickly away from those smiling faces with exciting, uncharted futures and quietly chided himself for masochistically leaving it on the wall. But he had to have that reminder; he wasn’t a talentless nobody, even if the world thought otherwise. He could still turn things around, and it started with this CV.

Once again the horse-hair shirt routine had inspired him and he turned back to the screen, adding a bold profile description which heralded Dan as a go-getter of some note: quick to act on opportunities, great IT experience, skilled project manager, excellent attention to detail – it was all there.

Then it all unravelled. How could he pitch himself for even this junior IT role when he’d been a mainly unpaid carer for ten years, who’d done only menial work because of its flexibility? After so long out of the loop his IT degree was practically worthless; he knew more about cleaning and flipping burgers now. Dan had missed the boat. He brought the job description back on screen and paused over the keyboard pensively but was saved by his mobile phone.

It’s getting worse, man, a voice murmured hastily without introduction.

He recognised the familiar refrain of old school friend Conor Treacy and smiled. I thought you were in hiding.

That was an execution, the kid with the egg.

Dan scoffed at the absurdity.

Open your eyes, man.

Is this about Davison again? Dan asked, rolling his eyes. Conor was so predictable.

Don’t use names. Think of the surveillance.

Look what d’you want Conor? I’m trying to work here.

You got a job then?

Still trying.

That’s all anyone can do with this government. You coming the Grapes later?

I can’t. I’ve got to finish this application and I said I’d see Gilda.

Your loss friend. I know Sandra’s gonna be there.

I’ll live without karaoke for a week, and she knows where I am.

Okay, next week then. But start looking around you, man; we’re in a war.

Yeah, yeah. And keep watching the skies. Dan shook his head with a smile and returned to his CV.

Chapter 3

Gilda Grimes’s flat was part of a large sheltered accommodation complex in south Liverpool. It was in a dilapidated neighbourhood where petty crime was rife, though residents were safe within its walls and the keen young security guard was ever watchful.

Dan’s ageing great aunt had been a widow for thirty years and he’d been her carer for the last five, after the death of his cherished grandmother who’d brought him up in place of the irresponsible parents he’d not seen in twenty-five years. Neither came near when Enid got ill and Dan became her full-time carer, or even when she passed away five years later and his attentions switched to his frail aunt Gilda.

His own place was half a mile away but Dan spent most of his time with Gilda. He received a modest carer’s allowance but couldn’t survive without his cleaning job – even if they couldn’t commit to regular hours. Still, everything might change if he could land the part-time IT junior role.

Gilda was in an upright armchair, of the kind always found in old people’s homes, as Dan emerged from the kitchen with mugs of tea and a packet of biscuits under one arm. He paused at the muted TV where the Prime Minister was doing those passionate hand movements again in a hastily arranged press conference. The banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: PM defends breach of charity watchdog rules in contract award to former classmate.

The old lady’s eyes were closed and her head lolled to one side. He looked at her tenderly as he placed the tea on the table, picking up the woollen blanket from the floor and replacing it across her lap. She quickly roused.

Did I doze off?

It’s okay Gilda, it was a repeat anyway. Shall I put another movie on?

I don’t like him, the old woman said, pointing to the screen.

I must be the only one left.

Gilda nodded and laughed hoarsely as Dan sat on the sofa.

You can’t please all the people all the time.

He could start by not changing his tune every week. He’s a snake.

Is this about the winter fuel payments again?

I’m serious, Daniel.

He’s had it tough you know, losing his wife like that.

And he’s made everyone else suffer since.

Well people should give him a break. No one realises... Dan’s voice tailed off.

I’m sorry, lad, Gilda said, softening her tone, I forget sometimes.

It’s okay; different situation, Dan contradicted a gently quivering lip. His wife didn’t drive home plastered with their daughter strapped in the back. At least Trish had a choice…

He still couldn’t talk about it after all this time and looked blankly between his knees to his shoes. A box of chocolates tapped softly against his knee and he looked up to see Gilda leaning over with a gentle smile. But no amount of chocolates would help. He forced a smile and grabbed the remote control, eager to forget the personal tragedy the two men shared.

Ah! Judge Judy! Gilda smiled enthusiastically. Can you turn it up, son?

Dan did so and sat back, tightly closing his eyes before drifting off.

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Ben Sturgess was working late at the lab. He always did; it was the only time he could focus on his own research.

It was tolerated but not encouraged by Pharmaco, the country’s third largest pharmaceuticals company, who demanded a sixty per cent share of any ‘private scientific developments’ on its premises. As in other industries, the soaring unemployment level meant pay freezes and longer hours were the norm and most staff carried their weary heads home at 6pm after nine-hour days. With out-of-hours work closely monitored, working your own time just wasn’t worth the paperwork. But Ben was young, ambitious and had no one to go home to.

The global leader in mood-management drugs had plucked him straight from university, exploiting his stellar performance in chemistry and psychology to absorb the roles of two unfortunate specialists. He had always been fascinated by the criminal mind and spent his spare time poring over biographies, psychological evaluations and genetic consistencies of the most infamous killers. He came at criminal psychology from every angle, even if his colleagues did find the forensic depths rather macabre. Ben’s fanatical work on the subject meant he could throw his supervisor a bone every week, yet never divulge the true nature of after-work research bent on controlling anti-social and criminal behaviour.

It was 10pm on a Friday night and his colleagues had long left for the weekend, but Ben was exactly where he wanted to be. Twenty-five years old with a wiry build, cheap prescription glasses and short fair hair swept to one side like a middle-aged politician, he didn’t belong on the party scene.

With shirt unbuttoned and tie long discarded, he sipped a warm cola and inputted the latest test results. The computer screen changed from a data entry form to eight empty horizontal bars and he hit a few buttons before placing a tiny probe into a phial of purple liquid propped beside the monitor. Bar after bar slowly coloured from left to right and he leaned closer in exhausted disbelief as the seventh one filled, going far beyond his expectations after a previous high of five.

It was significant progress and the culmination of over two years’ work and he triumphantly clutched fists to his chest as he stared in delight at the screen. He reached to disconnect the probe but his glasses reflected even more lateral movement and he looked back in astonishment as the last bar slowly filled. All finally flashed in unison and a box appeared across them stating: 100% match.

Ben looked from the screen to the phial then back to the screen. He changed the probe and prepared another sample before running the test again, but it was no fluke. He had finally found a formula he’d zealously hunted for years, and it would be something the world would crave. Now he needed a human trial.

Chapter 4

Dan had to do something to take his mind off it. Every time he saw Craig Davison he was taken back to that bitter day, and it was harder than ever now with the embattled Prime Minister never off the TV. The Australian press called him the Teflon Pomme; no scandal ever stuck and he could constantly change direction and contradict himself with total impunity.

Dan took little interest in the political decline of his country because it was hard enough witnessing the implosion of his own life. Having helped Gilda to bed and being unable to avoid the Premier on TV, he belatedly took up Conor’s invitation and set off on the half-mile walk to the Grapes.

The route was an increasingly common face of Britain and blighted by dereliction. Every fifth house and every other business were boarded up; the old maritime neighbourhood was gone; the modern community of Kosovan refugees had moved on and the Somalians refused to stay there. Litter blew across potholed roads and the only signs of life were around the sporadic pubs that hadn’t yet closed.

It was a cool spring night and Dan pulled his coat tight as he met the wind on the main road. He passed a row of shops and subconsciously increased his pace as he met the railings and deep shadows of the park. A sudden sound in the darkness made him flinch and he picked up speed as it was followed by a high-pitched metallic ping in front of him; the gang in the park were taking pellet gun pot shots. They were petty criminals whose ages ranged from fourteen to twenty and he’d once had a run-in with the oldest, which ended in a hiding as his friends joined in. They didn’t fight with any honour, one on one; they were just street rats.

Dan felt a helpless rage and had to fight his instinct to turn and confront them. He hurried on, averting his face to minimise any injury. Ping! A shot deflected off another lamp-post, going so close he felt the whoosh of air past his face. Finally reaching the cover of another line of shops, he decided to take the long way back later. He couldn’t risk another fight with them, not with Gilda depending on him.

He looked back to check they weren’t pursuing him but there were only distant sniggers in the darkness. He turned to hurry away but clattered into Ben Sturgess. The strangers made their apologies and continued in separate directions but Dan suddenly felt a sharp pain in his arm. Had he been hit with a pellet after all? He turned back to the younger man. Hey! Watch those dickheads in the park; they’re shooting pellets.

Ben didn’t reply and climbed into a nearby parked car. And waited.

Dan continued on to the Grapes, determined not to let the incident ruin his night. The karaoke was popular and he had to battle through a crowd just to reach the toilet. After being defeated by the lock on the decrepit cubicle door, he assessed the bloody pock mark in the bicep of his coat. He pursed his lips in helpless anger; it wasn’t like he had a big clothes budget. He carefully took it off and found his arm trickling blood but was disturbed by a knock on the cubicle door.

I knew you wouldn’t let me down; you’re the song after next. Don’t be long though, man. Sandra’s talking to some lads.

She won’t when I sing.

Yeah, she’ll be running for the door like the rest of us.

Conor rhythmically tapped the door with his fingernails and returned to the bar. Dan emerged to wet some tissue and clean the small wound; he’d been lucky the pellet had only nicked him. He returned to the cubicle and dabbed the fresh blood but the strength suddenly left his legs and he almost fell onto the toilet seat. ‘What was that?’ he wondered, desperately trying to recover his bearings as the toilet door creaked open again.

Watch the door, the first of two men said in a hushed tone.

The ancient door of Dan’s cubicle was kicked but swung only half open. Assuming it was empty, the man tried the next before going to work. Still a little dizzy, Dan instinctively kept quiet and listened through the gap at the hinge.

What’s that?

A handbag; hurry up.

Much in it?

The words were followed by frantic rummaging as personal items spilled to the floor.

Phone, purse, car keys – jackpot.

Got enough for the wraps then?

I have now, the thief quipped, flinging the stolen bag over the cubicle door. It bounced off Dan’s shoulder before hitting the floor and spilling its remaining contents. He listened eagerly as the drugs exchange was made, hoping they’d leave before he was discovered.

There was a brief silence, broken only by the telltale snorting of human pigs at the trough, before two more men entered in mid-laughter at a tone-deaf performer. The drug peddlers hurried out as one of the men forced the cubicle door and saw Dan.

Whoops! Sorry mate.

Dan saw one of the criminals staring icily back over the apologetic intruder’s shoulder and his heart sank. It was Terry Critchley, a well-known thug who’d spent most of his life in prison. He was out on licence and in the midst of his latest crime spree so the last thing he needed was a witness. Critchley’s stare was laced with menace and seemed to hang on Dan for an eternity before his accomplice urged him through the door.

Dan couldn’t help but collect the bag and sorry collection of make-up and personal items from the floor, ready to hand to the barmaid. He was at the sink flicking water into his face when Conor re-entered looking serious.

I know – my song, I’m coming.

It’s going off in there, man. Someone’s pinched Sandra’s bag...

Conor noticed the fawn-coloured leather handbag just as Dan grimaced in realisation. In just thirty minutes since leaving Gilda, he’d been shot and managed to ruin any chance of reconciliation with his ex-girlfriend.

--------

Ben’s mind was racing and he buzzed with adrenalin as he sat in the car, knowing what he had to do and how dangerous it could be. He carefully watched a figure a hundred yards ahead who was taking advantage of the badly lit road to try car doors.

Ben looked to the small plain plastic case on the passenger seat and back to the street, where a second man now flanked the line of cars as both worked towards him. They got to within thirty yards and fear suddenly got the better of Ben, who shrank low in his seat and fumbled for his keys. A sudden tap on the glass by his head made him drop them and he turned to see a scowling face inches from his own.

"What are you doing?"

The young face was twisted in territorial malice at someone who patently didn’t belong there; the four-eyed nerd in a cheap suit and tired old Volvo had no place in the tracksuited jungle. Ben froze and instinctively shook his head as he discreetly reached for his keys.

You won’t find a rent boy round here.

The youth leaned forward, his nose touching the glass as Ben desperately grasped around the foot well. He felt a draught to his left and turned to see a sneaky hand taking the case through the passenger door. He reached after it but the thief ducked in and punched him in the face. Ben fell back and nearly toppled out the other side of the now open driver’s door. Steel was pressed to his neck before he could steady himself and a hand ripped the wallet from his shirt pocket.

What’s this shit? the second youth hissed. Unable to move his head because of the knife, Ben rolled his eyes to see a syringe in his hand.

Don’t, please, Ben begged. It’s my medicine.

What’s it for gay boy? AIDS?

Please, I need it.

Let’s go, the first urged, pulling the knife from Ben’s throat but crashing a fist into his temple. He fell forward and hit his head on the steering wheel as the voices disappeared laughing into the night.

Ben had been given a timely warning of the dangers he’d face in executing the final stage of his research. But he wasn’t going to let his prize go that easily.

Chapter 5

Unlike Dan, Conor had never gone to university but was a voracious reader and probably the most educated person he knew. A portly thirty-four-year-old with floppy ginger hair and aggressively unfashionable sideburns, he co-owned a city-centre sandwich shop where he worked part time.

Happily single, he spent most of his free time reading and shuttling conspiracy theories around the internet. Conor mainly blogged on a popular underground website which regularly cited government policies and the Prime Minister’s behaviour as treason against British people.

Downing Street Dystopia (DSD) was locked in a perpetual cat and mouse struggle with clandestine agency, CYFA: so secret that no one even knew what the acronym stood for. Independent of all national cyber units, CYFA patrolled for online activity and commentary against the government but was fighting a losing battle with DSD; the more they traced and blocked it, the more popular the site became. Its authors even compared DSD users with the huddled families gathered around wireless radios during the Blitz: the silent oppressed majority desperate for change.

Conor left the madness of the Grapes behind and was soon in the small room he called the Bunker; a wall-to-wall hive of modern and traditional communications equipment, only accessible through a false panel in his kitchen. It was a small space beyond the perpendicular parameters of the room that owed much to a botched building job, and was impossible to detect.

He sat at the computer under a lamp at the cramped desk with the earphones hanging down one side of his head nearly submerged in ginger sideburn as he listened to a crackling CB radio. A cigarette dipped from his lips as he typed a blog on the death of the young protestor.

George Orwell could never in his darkest dreams have imagined the England we live in today. How far we have come and how far we have fallen when the plutocrats are free to brazenly murder our children in order to maintain their suffocating tether.

Conor sucked on the cigarette and leaned over to check the inquest report in the newspaper on the desk, which tellingly carried no photograph of the child for risk of sympathy. The article castigated those responsible for misleading a poor, impressionable youngster and sympathised with his parents, though criticising their conspiracy delusions.

It was a masterstroke of this government to gag and then quietly castrate our free press. They stalk all forms of communication in this country from the shadows but they can’t hide the truth of this horrific murder. This living nightmare will only end when we stand together and take our country back.

Conor backspaced the last sentence. It wasn’t time for such actions. Yet.

The CB suddenly crackled into life: "Cold Trout, Cold Trout; are you in the sea, over?"

Conor stubbed his cigarette and grabbed the handset. Cold Trout is in the reservoir. Who is fishing, over?

"This is Ancient Marlin. If you know the spawning point, come immediately, over."

That may be hard right now, over.

"Urgent request; dolphins caught in tuna nets. Swim tomorrow? Over."

Conor’s eyes opened wide and he hovered over the handset, which crackled and whined like the antiquated equipment it was. Are you serious? he gasped, almost to himself. There was no reply and he pressed the transmission button again. I’ll be there tomorrow, over and out.

Conor turned the set off. Something big was going down. Or had already happened.

Chapter 6

Dan felt terrible the next day. He’d only gone out in the hope of speaking to Sandra but had frozen when presented with a perfect way to win her back, while putting that human filth back behind bars. Practical common sense and no small amount of fear put paid to any heroism; Terry Critchley was, after all, the thug who’d half-killed a witness in his own attempted murder trial. It was his badge of honour and constantly used to intimidate others, though he hardly needed it with an already fearsome reputation in south Liverpool.

A visibly upset Sandra had disappeared into the pub toilet before Dan could speak to her and Conor had urged him to leave after handing the bag in, fearing the police would seek an easy collar. Desperate to show he still cared, he’d initially hung around but the flashing blue lights brought bad memories and he hurried home.

Dan felt angrier the more he thought about the whole incident. He lay in bed until noon running the whole thing over in his mind, convincing himself what he should have done and how he’d have coped with the consequences. It all seemed so easy now. He wondered if he should even ring Sandra but quickly reproached himself: ‘Yeah, she’ll really appreciate how you stuck up for her, you coward.’

The irony was that most people, the police included, knew it was Critchley. He could be seen on CCTV loitering near Sandra’s table before the bag disappeared. He spoke to no one in the bar, didn’t buy a drink and was in and out of the place in six minutes. But he disappeared for vital moments and was next seen on camera exiting the toilet where the empty bag was later found. They all knew it was him but no one could do anything without a witness. Dan awaited the police phone call with dread; though the CCTV surely cleared him, he was still the one who’d emerged from the toilet with the stolen item.

He was supposed to go to Gilda’s but had an afternoon cleaning shift and was in a rotten mood. The old lady always said not to bother when he had work on but Dan normally made light of any tiredness. He knew she would be better without his company today and, rapt in self-loathing, texted to say he had a migraine and was resting before work. Using arthritic fingers, Gilda texted promptly back with concern and Dan felt even worse. He grimaced as he returned a message assuring he would see her tomorrow.

He might have been asleep ten minutes or two hours but woke with a start and rubbed his bleary eyes to see Sandra calling on his phone. He couldn’t answer quickly enough.

San, I’m so glad you called. I wanted to chat last night.

He could hear her breathing at the other end but there was no response. Just out of a deep sleep, his mind suddenly raced. Did she know he’d been a coward and not tackled Critchley? Worse still, did she think he was the thief?

Look I know you’re pissed off with me...

Dan paused to listen but again there was no answer.

San you don’t understand, it was Terry Critchley. I saw him...Can’t we at least talk?

You’ve talked enough.

Dan’s eyes closed in despair as the caller hit the receiver. It was Terry Critchley.

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Ben was glad it was a Saturday. He held an ice pack to his heavily bruised face though it was bound to draw attention in work on Monday. It was mid-afternoon and he’d hardly moved from the couch all day, glued to a twenty-four-hour news channel. The station kept returning to a reporter stood before a police cordon at railway sidings in Liverpool. Behind him were small neon crime-scene tents which swayed in the growing wind like some grotesque three-ring circus.

At this early stage the reporter could only quote local speculation of a drunken dare gone wrong. It was an infrequently used freight line but the theory made sense as surely one of them would have heard the train coming. A smaller news station rather insensitively suggested there was more to it, with unconfirmed reports claiming the three victims were members of a notorious juvenile gang who may have been killed by rivals.

Ben soaked it all up, as he did with so many serious crimes; always taking an unhealthy interest in the facts and motivations behind them. Once they’d got over the shock of seeing his face in work on Monday, he knew his colleagues would seek his in-depth analysis of the incident. Ben could always be relied on to beat the official police announcement. The Poirot of psychoanalysis and forensic psychology, he was wasted as a microscope monkey.

But this time Ben had a particular interest in the case and spent the weekend eagerly checking each bulletin, and awaiting the coroner’s statement.

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Dingle may have had a high crime rate but suspicious deaths were relatively rare – so three at once were big news.

Dan was in work when he first heard, on a Saturday afternoon shift cleaning a city centre office block. He was the only one of his team who ever heard anything; the others all using earphones to dull the monotony of the job. As he drifted along emptying bins and running an occasional cloth, he passed an office where two workers talked about the young men found dead on the railway in Dan’s neighbourhood. He diligently rubbed a cloth over a desk just outside as he listened in.

There was speculation the victims were young criminals but everything was sketchy so far. One said he’d had a car stolen in the area and nothing good ever came out of that estate, while the other assumed it was a gang thing and the world would be better without them. Dan bit his tongue and glared towards the office in anonymous admonishment as their conversation drifted and they did everything but work.

Dan suddenly had faint hope one of them might be Terry Critchley, though he