‘Investigation’s focusing on Cleckheaton and the surrounding towns.’

‘Radius?’

‘About ten miles. Tracking suggests it’s where he was dealing. He was found in…’

‘I know, I know,’ Mills said, glancing at the preliminary report on his desk. ‘Another few yards and Kirklees could’ve had him. Now he’ll be our bad stat. Unless you can get a conviction. Any chance of that?’

‘It’s not straightforward, Sir.’

Mills stifled a laugh.

‘You’re calling me Sir now?’

‘I’m trying to be formal, Andy. This is an odd one. I think we should see where it leads. I mean, properly.’

‘Drug dealer gets bumped off in his burnt-out motor, stash under the friggin’ seat? Sounds pretty straightforward to me.’

‘It was his mum’s car.’

‘Correction: small-time drug dealer. How much d’you think I can spend on stuff like this?’

‘Stuff? It’s a murder.’

‘Have you seen the cuts we’ve had to make these last few years?’

‘This isn’t what it seems. I’ve just spoken to his mother, and his girlfriend. Something just doesn’t feel right.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says instinct.’

‘Aye, well last time you acted on instinct you ended up eating garlic baguettes and singing the bloody Marseillaise. Look where that got you!’

Joe couldn’t help smiling. He’d met Andy seventeen years ago, the two ‘mature’ cadets at the West Yorkshire Police Training Centre. They’d been friends ever since. Andy was slightly younger, having joined the police after a couple of tours of Afghanistan with the Yorkshire Regiment. Joe, meanwhile, had done a couple of tours of the comprehensive schools of Leeds before opting for a career in the police.

They’d moved up to CID about the same time, too. It was always assumed that Joe would be the one rising through the ranks. But years later it was Andy’s name with DCI in front of it. That, plus all the trappings of success. The dull, functional office, the white shirt and gold cufflinks, and Andy himself growing more haggard by the day, slumped in his chair writing budgets, or dragging himself off to another meeting with other senior officers in pristine white shirts. Interpol had saved Joe from something far worse.

‘Je ne regrette rien!’

‘Quoting me French, yer dickhead? Look at yourself! Copper as good as you should’ve been a couple of ranks above me by now, easy. Now this? Tryin’ to kick-start your career with some crackhead in, where was it?’

‘Cleckheaton.’

‘Aye, there.’