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By Steve Mosby

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Sample text

Smaller branches had fallen from the trees and formed ribcage traps that snapped in the undergrowth. In the canopy above, the sunlight could hardly make its way through; it came down scattered into fragments, casting small patches of dappled brightness on the leaves and trees. This should have felt idyllic and peaceful; instead, it felt full of menace. But I couldn't turn around now. A minute later we reached the occupants of the other car. Three of them were little more than burly black shapes leaning against the trees, arms folded.

Owen had been shot in the side by an air-rifle. Someone out walking had found him, curled up on the dusty ground like a caterpillar. Motorists reported seeing a group of older kids that afternoon, leaving the woods at the far end by the ring road, but they were never identified. Teenagers messing around. Over the years, I've wondered if they even realised what they'd done. I parked up behind the Domestic Goddess van and made my way down the long tarmac drive. There were small trees on either side of the steps at the bottom, grown together overhead to create an arch.

There had been a hint of cruelty in the strong angles at his jaw, but it was the eyes that gave him away: full of intelligence and hate. Twelve years ago, Frank Carroll - an ex-cop of only a few hours - had stared out at the world, looking like he understood a hundred ways to take you apart and was picturing them right then, enjoying each, one by one. By all accounts, he'd been a powerfully built man, equally as capable of carrying out those acts in the flesh as he was in his mind. But prison clearly hadn't been kind to him.

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