Prologue
 
Through a gap in the cardboard he can see upwards to the trees and beyond, past the iron railings of the park to the street lights. He can see the grand white buildings that line the park to one side, homes of the anonymous, rich and indigent, almost but never quite meeting each other.  

The park is peaceful, especially this patch he has made his own, even with the hum of the city. He feels relatively safe with the lights close by, and is warm enough in the brown sleeping bag and layered, dirty clothes, although he wonders how it will be when autumn comes.
 
The light that he consider his safety is blocked partly by two feet. Enough light remains though for him to make out the laces on one of the shoes as it suddenly races to his face. He struggles to cry out as his shelter is rent aside, exposing his belongings.
 
‘What the f-‘ he cries but it is knocked out of him by another blow to the side of his head. Through the now pooling blood he sees his assailant has crouched down to him, and, even though he cannot see his face, size alone says the attacker is a man. He seems to be given moment to gather his senses. He wipes the red from his face with his hand. 
 
‘I've got nothing for you, no drugs or anything, no booze or money,'  he starts, scared, but again he doesn't finish. This time is not a blow that stops him, but the realisation that the the man is well-dressed, and there is a faint smell of cologne. The attacker moves closer still and his face catches a shred of yellow from the street light, revealing itself, smiling.
 
‘Oh Christ, no,' the sleeping man says. ‘Not yet.'
 
The sleeping man tries to push himself backwards, but his legs are caught in the bag and he cannot get away The streetlight also catches the slim blade of a knife,which flashes as it moves up swiftly to meet the flesh under its victim's chin. It pierces deep into the soft white skin, losing no momentum as it carries on up into his brain, achieving its purpose instantly.

The well-dressed man holds the knife in place for a beat, then twists it one way and back, before pulling it out and throwing it into the bushes. He stands, regards his hands and then throws the gloves in the bush as well.
 
Without hurry, he moves the dead man's head a few inches with his foot, revealing a small canvas knapsack. He crouches again and opens it, unbothered by the blood, and tips the contents onto the tarmac path. He pushes a toiletry bag aside with the backs of his fingers to reveal a small notebook, which he puts in his pocket.
 
He then unzips  the now soaking sleeping bag from top to bottom, opening it like flaps of skin on a wound. At the very end of the bag next to the dead man's boots, he sees what he is looking for. Satisfied he puts it into his pocket and walks away, down the path into the darkness of the park. 
 
 
 
1.
 
Sarah Shaw threw the phone down onto the passenger seat of her car. However many times she told her husband, he forgot to turn his phone so often it was barely worth him turning it on, which made leaving a message pointless, but she still did it. May be he would phone her back, may be not. She was used to it, and he always did say it was part of his charm. She had spoken to him earlier, but at that precise moment, needing to tell him the the appointment with Doctor Meyer had been brought forward to three o'clock, charm was the last thing she was going to call it.
 
She pulled out of the car park, hoping she would be able to get back in after lunch. It should have been automatic but sometimes visitors ignored the signs. ‘Perhaps I should have done the same before I married that waster' she thought, smiling.
 
The journey back to her house was very short, and was probably the main reason she had changed her jobs from the hectic busy job in centre of Manchester. Of course there was also the fact that it would allow her to take part time hours when - if, she thought more often - the treatment did mean they would have a baby. For now, though, it meant she could get home every day to look after her other baby, Jilly, a four year old dog rescued from the dog sanctuary, on whom she lavished all the love she had. "Yeah, yeah," she said to her friends. "I know, she's a substitute, a placebo baby, I know."  But she loved her all the same. Half an hour at home was her precious time, away from any pressures or need to do anything other than love her dog.
 
The fairly light traffic put her in an even more pleasant mood. She could just phone Dave later when she got back to work, he'd still be able to make it for the appointment. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the car engine, sitting for half a minute to hear the end of the song. Then she went round to the side of the house and let herself into the kitchen, where Jilly raced to meet her, bounding and spinning joyfully.
 
"You silly, daft dog," she rubbed and messed the dog's fur around her shoulders and under her chin. "Have you eaten your food? Do you want to go out?" The dog carried on bumbling around Sarah's legs as she went to the fridge to get out the salad she had prepared earlier. She poured the salad out of the plastic tub onto a plate, got a fork and put them both on the kitchen table.
 
"Come on then," she said to the dog, walking through the door to the . "Come through here, let's get you outside before you burst." Before she could start the front doorbell rang. "Shit, sorry Jilly, I'll just get that. Won't be a second." 
 
She went through into the hallway, and opened the front door, using one foot to keep the impatient dog inside.
 
"Hello Madam," a middle-aged man was stood at the door, flanked by two much younger, uniformed police officers, one male, one female. "I'm DC Clayton, and these are my colleagues PCs Barber and Hutton. May I ask, you are Mrs Sarah Shaw?"
 
"I am, yes, but can I ask what you want? Is something wrong?" she asked.
 
"Please, Mrs Shaw, we should go inside, " said DC Clayton, trying to step in.
 
"No, it's okay, whatever you want to say, it's fine here," she said defensively. Later Sarah would wonder why she said it, why she was on her guard.

"You are the wife of Mr Dave Shaw? " - she nodded, feeling the air around her start to turn brittle and heavy - "Unfortunately, Mrs Shaw I have to tell you that a man's body was found dead earlier today in your husband's car on the hard shoulder of the M6 near Stafford. Is your husband in Mrs - "
 
"Sorry, no, he's not in, he's at work," she interrupted. Then she stepped back slightly. The meaning behind the policeman's words seemed to bring weight to the air around her. She put one hand out to brace herself against a fall.
 
And she remembered the failed call, "It can't be him. His phone was off just now, but I phoned him this morning and he was okay." A myriad of questions all tried to get out of her at once, her words tumbling through themselves as realisation followed realisation. "And...and...you said this was in Stafford, it can't be, he works in Manchester, so what would he be doing there, and, the car was on the hard shoulder, you said? That means there hadn't been an accident, and if there was one, why didn't you say so? And how did his car get onto the hard shoulder if, oh Jesus, what's happened?"
 
"That's what we are trying to ascertain Mrs Shaw. We know it is not your husband in the car,  but we would definitely like to ask him some questions. If he's not here, you have to do instead. You can come with us to answer some questions yourself," said Clayton.

Something in his voice jagged with Sarah. "What are you not telling me here? Please, what's going on?"

He was trying too hard almost keeping something back. It was his puzzled, weary look that disturbed Sarah almost as much as his words. When he carried on, she found out she was right to be disturbed.  

"Okay, honest? We know it's his car," the police man carried on. "And we know there is a murdered man sat in the driver's seat. But there are some, how can I put this, peculiarities about the scene that I would really like to understand. I reckon your husband could be the one to tell us. I have to be honest as well and say that we initially thought it was your husband. We found his driving licence in the victim's pocket. But the victim was much shorter than your husband, so we are now certain it is not him. I must tell you that there is currently a warrant issued for his immediate arrest on suspicion of murder. If you do know anything that could help us Mrs Shaw, please, don't hold back."