Psycho Alley Read Online Free PDF

had been used ruthlessly as the explanation for many otherwise inexplicable police vehicle accidents: ‘It was a dog, Sarge, a big black one, came from nowhere.’
    â€˜I didn’t see it coming … I was almost asleep,’ Jane admitted, sounding cross with herself. She set off again with a long exhalation of breath.
    Henry sat up straight, aware that tiredness could get you killed. ‘Whatever happens today,’ he announced, ‘we’ll both take a couple of days off …’ But even as he spoke he had one of those pit-of-the-stomach premonitions that indicated to him there would be fat chance of that happening. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, hoping to keep Jane awake by way of discussion, ‘what else do you know about Uren’s car?’
    â€˜Other than the body in the boot, you mean?’
    She drove north through Bispham, then Cleveleys and up into Fleetwood. All charming, romantic-sounding names, Henry thought sardonically, rather like the names of the towns along Route 66. Jane threaded through the streets of Fleetwood and emerged at the roundabout where Henry had originally spotted Uren and his unknown companion in the Astra not many hours before. Just off the roundabout was newly-built superstore, next to which was Fleetwood’s well known retail outlet, Freeport, which sold brand names at much reduced prices. Henry had been there a few times as a customer, but in the many clothing stores on the site he had never yet found anything that actually quite fitted him. He always ended up back in Asda or Debenham’s.
    Jane spun round the roundabout, now heading out of Fleetwood, Freeport on her left. Just beyond Freeport and a few large, untidy warehouses, she turned left into a service road which ran towards Fleetwood docks. This led through a series of tatty, run-down buildings which were once fish-packing sheds and other warehouses, all bearing the hallmarks of a once thriving fishing industry.
    A couple of serviceable trawlers were berthed in the dock itself, but the quayside was littered with several rotting hulks of fishing boats which had once provided a living for the people of the town, together with huge chunks of unidentifiable scrap metal. The place looked and felt desolate, overseen by the ghost of a bygone age of profitability. Jane drove past a scrapyard, at the gate of which stood the classic, stereotypical scrapyard hound; a mean-looking mongrel, a cross between the Hound of the Baskervilles and Scooby-Doo, all bones and bollocks. Then there was a caravan storage facility behind high, chain link fencing.
    After the dock, Freeport could be seen away to their left, and between was a newly refurbished marina in which was berthed an array of yachts and motorboats. Henry was struck by the juxtaposition, old and new, poor and wealthy, clean and shite. A microcosm of Lancashire, he thought.
    Jane drove on. Out to their right was the mouth of the River Wyre. The road narrowed to a cracked, concrete track, then bore right towards the river itself. Ahead of them was a police van with two uniformed constables lounging tiredly against it. Jane drove up to them and stopped. She got out, flashing her warrant card. Henry stayed where he was, looking out across the estuary. With the tide out, huge, dirty-looking mud bars were exposed. The area was wild, rugged, quite barren, the silence broken only by the call of gulls.
    Following a brief conversation, during which the officers pointed directions, Jane returned to the car, shivering.
    â€˜Surprisingly cold out there.’
    She continued the journey, taking the car along an ever-narrowing track, past the remnants of old buildings, their foundations now merely outlines in the earth, some areas of flat concrete, some bricks that had once been part of walls, reminding Henry of the remains of a Roman fort. Maybe one day this area would be of historical and architectural interest.
    â€˜How far?’
    â€˜Another hundred