More than once I’d thought about breaking in. There was a window in the storeroom, high up in the wall. But the thought of smashing the glass, wriggling my body through the narrow frame, dropping down into darkness on the other side, crashing into God-knows-what furniture stacked underneath, raising a racket and risking injury, put me off. Or, to be honest, the inevitable interview with the police if I got caught was putting me off. The thought of explaining myself to Inspector Ford, or worse, his horrible detective constable, made me shudder.

I was about to do the sensible thing, stop standing in the rain and go home, when the figure of a man emerged from the end of the alley, pushing the broken tape aside with one hand and looking furtively around him. Instinctively, I ducked further into the shadows and held my breath.

In the darkness I could only make out a tall, spindly figure, coat collar pulled up around his ears, a dark cap obscuring his face. Then, as he turned his head, the lamplight gave me a brief glimpse of his features. It was enough. Piano Teeth. He gave one more nervous look around him and then emerged from the alleyway, sticking the tape back and tapping it into place with his bony fingers. Then he thrust his hands in his pockets and, with an air of assumed innocence, sauntered jauntily towards North Street.

I hurried after him and peered around the corner. I wanted to see where he was going. But more than that, I wanted to see what he’d been up to. I watched him until he disappeared from view then nipped back to the dark mouth of the passage.

I pulled away the police tape and fumbled in my bag for my torch, aimed the beam of light down the alleyway, flooding the ground ahead, and trod cautiously, dodging the puddles. The rain was leaking from a gutter, pattering on to the plastic lids of wheelie bins and I weaved my way between them, down to Nick’s front door and ran the torch beam over it. The police tape was still fixed in place, the door solidly shut. I gave it an experimental push. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. I walked on a little further, until I stood beneath the stockroom window, high in the wall, and shone the torch at it.

I was so intent on looking upwards I didn’t notice the bloody beer crate until I nearly fell over it. Someone had emptied it of its bottles, stood them carefully against a wall, turned the crate upside down so it could be stood on, and placed it immediately beneath the window, to give himself a leg-up. Now, who would do a thing like that? I asked myself, as I placed my own feet on its surface. I gave a tentative bounce. The crate was made of plastic, but seemed sturdy enough.