Find Them Dead

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Mickey Starr gazed into the night, feeling restless and apprehensive. And afraid. It wasn’t fear of the darkness but of what lay beyond it.

Going to be fine, he tried to reassure himself. He’d done these Channel crossings before without a hitch, so why should this one be any different?

But it was. No escaping the fact. This was different.

Fear was something that had never troubled him before, but throughout this trip he had been feeling a growing anxiety, and now as the shore grew closer, he was truly frightened. Terrified, if it all went pear-shaped, what would happen to the one person in his life who had ever really meant anything to him and who loved him unconditionally. Whatever bad things he may have done.

Wrapped up against the elements in a heavy coat and a beanie, roll-up smouldering in his cupped hand, the muscular, grizzled, forty-three-year-old stood on the heaving deck of the car ferry, braced against a stanchion to keep his balance.

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