It was pissing it down. That kind of freezing rain that soaks through to the core and doesn’t stop there. Sergeant Robbins knew he’d feel the chill hours after he got dry, and god knew when that might be. He hugged himself a little tighter, and tried not to think about the scene that lay behind himself and the police tape.

That poor girl. She barely looked older than Sophie. Sgt Robbins had just dropped his 18 year old daughter off for her 2nd term at Bristol University the previous week, she was studying sociology, whatever the hell that was. Yeah, sure, she probably went out and got drunk, maybe wore slightly skimpier clothes there than here in quiet old Hastings, but she’d be safe, right? She’d grown up with a policeman as her dad, she must know better than to walk alone at night wearing bugger all, surely?

Just thinking about Sophie was making him feel sick. What that bastard had done to this girl was above and beyond reprehension. He kept seeing those hands, the nail varnish chipped and fingers raw from scrabbling at the pavement. He must have dragged her into the alley by her ankles, judging by the bruises. Stop thinking about it, he reprimanded himself. It’s NOT Sophie, and it won’t be her. Not ever. Just do your job, keep people away, and try not to freeze to death. He wished he was back at the station, or on patrol, or just about anywhere but here.

A movement across the street caught his eye. Dark clothes, hat pulled down over his face, lurking behind a telephone box, the figure seemed to be watching the scene in the alleyway.

Looking over his shoulder at the crime scene, Sergeant Robbins made a snap decision. Everyone there was busy; taking photos, searching the area, no-one was looking his way. This fucker was going to pay. He reached for his Taser, and began edging his way towards the figure. Keeping his pace slow and measured, he circled around. The figure was still there, hunched and silent. As he grew closer, he saw he was shaking. Bastard! Masturbating over a dead girl. Fuck the Taser, this guy deserved a wallop. He sheathed the Taser, and pulled out his truncheon, wishing police here carried the same weaponry as their brothers the other side of the pond. Well, a truncheon well aimed to the base of skull could cause as much harm as a bullet.

There was just the telephone box between Sergeant Robbins and the suspect. Steeling himself, he prepared to strike. The figure was too busy watching the scene in the alley way and, it appeared, pleasuring himself to notice the figure behind him, arm raised, truncheon at the ready. As the arm dropped, Robbins realised too late, the figure was neither male, nor masturbating, but a young girl, around the age of the victim -‘of Sophie!’ the thought flashed into his mind the second the truncheon connected with the sobbing figure.