‘Really, Bob, your sense of humour can be just a bit much at times. I’m going to Italy and that’s that. And trying to get me going by putting on this phoney serious face and pretending there’s been a killing is just not funny. Now, if you have nothing sensible to say to me, I suggest we both get on with our work.’

‘Sorry boss, the word’s just come in.’

‘Enough! If you’ve got nothing better to do, I have.’

McAllister stood up abruptly and headed towards the canteen door.

‘Boss, the bad news for you, and him I suppose, is that it looks as if Kevin Boyle’s been shot. Dead.’

McAllister rounded on the DI. The look on Bob Taylor’s face told him everything he didn’t want to know.

‘Very dead, boss. Sorry.’

Italy.

The San Siro.

Milan.

‘I don’t bloody believe it. Shit!’

The small crowd of watchers was stirred by the arrival on the scene of McAllister, Taylor, and two detective sergeants. The general consensus was that the high heid yins had arrived.

The area surrounding Kevin Boyle’s BMW had been cordoned off by blue and white plastic tape and resolutely guarded by a number of uniformed police officers. A sergeant detached himself from the group and approached the detectives.

McAllister was relieved when he saw Ben Alexander walking towards him. The two men had joined the police at the same time and had been trained together. Thereafter their careers had taken very different paths. While McAllister had steadily climbed the ranks of the CID, Ben Alexander had been quite content to be an old-fashioned beat cop who eventually, but deservedly, made the rank of sergeant. He had tried the inspector’s examinations but, by his own admission, was no scholar and the theoretical side of police work held little appeal for him.

What he was was an outstandingly good thief-catcher. He made a point of knowing everyone in his area, and everything about them. If there was a spate of house-breakings, Alexander would go instantly to the men who were the likely candidates. They were presented with a very simple choice. He could, and would, make their life miserable by being at their back every time they breathed, watching their every move – or a name could be forthcoming. Invariably, a name came forth.

There had been a time when parents who were having problems with unruly sons would speak to Alexander, who would then have ‘a quiet word.’ The recipient of the quiet word was frequently so shaken by it that he would trip and fall, thereby sustaining a black eye. However, the force of the policeman’s personality or the pain of the accidental injury was often more than enough to get a youngster back on the straight and narrow path. This was community policing in operation, long before the powers that be invented the term.