Psycho Alley

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The last thing Henry Christie needed to be doing on a bitter, wind-chilled Friday evening was traipsing from pub to pub around Fleetwood town centre. Not that he had a problem with Fleetwood, though it did seem to be over-populated by surging masses of extremely inebriated young women, many of whom appeared to be pregnant, with a desire to fight, and could well have been descendants of fishwives; nor did he have a problem with a pub crawl. In fact, that was one of his favourite pastimes.

What was bothering him was the fact that a three-month major crime investigation he’d been heading had come to this: trawling through dens and dives in an effort to root out a suspect, and only a suspect at that, who had constantly been eluding him. ‘Clutching at straws’ was the negative phrase which kept whirring through his grey matter. And on top of all that, because he was on duty he could not drink any alcohol and he was in the company of someone he would rather have avoided.

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