Cold Death

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Winding down his window, and switching off the headlights of the black Mercedes, Iain Campbell swung the car into Fielden Street and straddled along the centre white lines for a few yards until his eyes adapted to the dimness. Then following the direction of the pointing finger of his front seat passenger he switched off its three litre, throaty, engine and coasted quietly towards the nearside kerb.

For a few seconds the three occupants of the Mercedes sat motionless, watching, and listening.

Deathly silence.

* * * * *

Staring out through the windscreen Billy Wallace’s slate grey eyes darted from side to side scanning the high tenement buildings each side of the street. Billy knew the area well. He used to live here as a child; that was until his family went up in the world.

He couldn’t help but notice how the area had deteriorated over the last few years. It had the stigma of being one of the hardest, poorest places in Britain. Most of the people he had grown up with here had moved out, leaving behind the unfortunates who had fallen to the hands of the drug dealers and money lenders.

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