DCI Will Bailey eased his car into gear. The sun peered sleepily from behind its blanket of clouds as the six o’clock news pips sounded. The only other vehicle, a bin lorry, crawled up the street, its rhythmic beeping and flashing almost lulling Will back to sleep.
One of the bin-men, his old school friend Danny Hiller, waved as he passed. Will smiled. The great thing about living here his whole life was that no-one was a stranger.
His former school slid into view. He remembered playing in those fields, throwing down school jumpers for goalposts. When the jumpers inevitably got muddled up, the teacher would complain that no-one ever labelled their uniform. But the children were adept at identifying one another by smell, and the jumpers would quickly be tossed to their owners.
“That’s Andrew’s! This is Simon’s!” they’d shout after one sniff.
Will’s police radio crackled, snapping him back into the here-and-now.
“Report of another body. 3 Darlington Drive. Our killer has struck again.”
“I’m a minute away,” said Will, suddenly wide awake, his heart racing.
The so-called “Waste Disposal Killer” had committed a spate of murders of morally deplorable locals. A paedophile priest, a corrupt politician, a convicted rapist, all stabbed and placed upside down in their wheelie bins in a symbolic community “clean-up.”
Will pulled up outside 3 Darlington Drive, which he knew to be the home of John Holmes, currently awaiting trial for fraud targeted at the elderly.
John’s wife was on the doorstep.
“He’s over there,” she whimpered, pointing to the wheelie bin in the driveway.
“Ok, Mrs Holmes. Why don’t you wait inside?”
Will approached the bin. A pool of congealed blood surrounded it, John’s feet poking out. He was clearly dead. Will’s stomach lurched. This had all the hallmarks of the Waste Disposal Killer.
Will scanned the area for clues. Something caught his eye; a scrap of sheepskin material hanging from the fence.
It was the lining of a coat by the look of it. Will pulled it off, bringing it up to his nose. The smell was instantly recognisable: Danny Hiller. And this house wasn’t on Danny’s refuse collection route.
Danny was notoriously aggressive at school. But he had once saved Will from a beating.
“We’re gonna mess you up, Bailey,” Lee Mason had said as the gang closed in. Then, like a hero, Danny had appeared.
“Touch him and you’re dead,” he’d said. The bullies had scattered like roaches, never bothering Will again. Since that moment, he’d felt indebted to Danny.
The fabric weighed heavy in Will’s hand, his sense of duty as a police officer in a tug-of-war with his loyalty towards Danny.
His mind spun like a waltzer. Being caught hiding evidence would spell the end of his career. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to a serial killer, however “moral”… could he?
Sirens drew near. The CSI team would be here any second. Will took a furtive look around and whistled as he pocketed the material.
