To Die Alone by John Dean

there’s any intelligence on him first. I seem to recall someone saying that his last practice was in Bolton so you might ring the local cops, see if they can dig up anything.’
    ‘What are we looking for?’
    ‘Not sure,’ said the inspector, clambering into the vehicle. ‘Anything that links Thornycroft to Meredith or dog fighting, I suppose.’
    ‘But Thornycroft is a vet.’
    ‘And Harold Shipman was a doctor,’ said Harris, reaching down to start the engine.
    ‘Good point,’ said Butterfield, looking over at the drunks. ‘Do you want me to sort them out first?’
    ‘No, leave them to it. They’re too pissed to do any serious harm.’
    One of the drunks gave a cry of pain and staggered backwards, clutching his bloodied nose.
    ‘On the other hand,’ grinned the inspector, jumping out of the Land Rover. ‘You see how Charlie is, I’ll stop Len doing something he’ll regret in the morning. Assuming he can remember it.’
    The officers moved swiftly across the market square as Len Radley lurched forward again, his fist still bunched. He was about to deliver a second blow when Jack Harris intervened, knocking his arm to one side. Radley gave him a stupid, drunken look.
    ‘Go home, Len,’ said Harris calmly, ‘or else I’ll have to nick you – and you know how I hate paperwork.’
    Len Radley considered the comment for a few moments then nodded and started to weave his way along the pavement.
    ‘Good boy,’ said Harris and turned to look at the injured man, who was sitting on the ground, clutching his nose and being tended to by the constable.
    The inspector sensed a presence behind him and, without turning round, casually flicked his bunched fist backwards. He gave a smile of satisfaction as he heard Len’s pained grunt. The inspector turned to see the drunk sway for a few seconds before sinking to his knees and clutching his face. Butterfield gave a little shake of the head: how had Harris known what Radley was about to do, she thought?
    ‘I should do you for police brutality,’ slurred Radley, glaring up at him. ‘You could have broken my nose.’
    ‘Believe me, Len, if I had wanted to break your nose I would have done so. Now get out of here or you can spend a night in the cells, paperwork or not.’
    The drunk hauled himself to his feet and appeared about to challenge the instruction but a single, menacing step forward from the inspector was all it took and with a final glare, Len Radley lurched his way out of the market place, staggering several times as the rain lashed down ever harder and the wind started a low moan. Harris watched him disappear round the corner then gave a shake of the head and returned his attention to the man on the ground.
    ‘So what’s this about, Charlie?’ he asked. ‘Not like you two to fall out.’
    ‘We’d had a skinful, Mr Harris.’
    ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said the inspector, helping him to his feet. ‘I assume you were in the King’s Head?’
    Myles nodded.
    ‘What’s kicking things off?’ asked the inspector.
    Charlie Myles did not reply.
    ‘All right,’ said Harris, ‘if that’s the way you want to play it. Go on, get yourself home. Might I suggest you take the long way, though. Just in case Len fancies another go.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Myles, producing from his trouser pocket a grubby handkerchief with which he dabbed his nose. ‘You saved me from a right pasting, I reckon, Mr Harris.’
    ‘Yeah, I’m all heart. Go on, get out of here.’
    Myles hesitated.
    ‘Something you want to tell me?’ asked Harris.
    ‘Look, I ain’t going to tell what me and Len were fighting about – that were personal – but maybe I can still help you.’
    ‘Not sure quite how in your state,’ said Harris and winked at the grinning Butterfield. ‘Unless you are going to buy me a drink then I would have to decline your kind offer because I’ve got a particularly pleasant single malt waiting for me – assuming I ever get home, that