Sharkey is thinner than a slice of Devon ham and spends most of his time cultivating the sort of physique that ends in men with tight-fitting shirts looking for trouble down at the pub.

Fortunately, he’d given me one of the larger flannelettes from his wardrobe before buggering off.

It was clinging to my gut uncomfortably.

We’d parked the truck across the highway. I was making a show of inspecting the tires and regretting my life decisions when I heard the car approaching.

It belted around the corner and screamed to a halt.

The stupid bastard had stolen a Reliant Regal, perhaps the most ridiculous car in motoring history, which was notable for its lack of a fourth wheel.

My bemusement disappeared when I saw the man behind the wheel.

I’d misjudged this situation.

Badly.

He was young, unshaven and unkempt, eyes dark with fury.

There were some people who committed crimes because they were desperate or afraid or they needed the money or were trying to stave off boredom. Most criminals were pretty harmless. There was something dark and furious behind those eyes.

He raised a sawn-off shotgun, pointed in my direction and gestured to the side of the car.

I raised my hands in but remained stationary. My service revolver was sitting within reach on the top of the tyre. Stepping away from the truck would send the situation spiralling out of my control. There was still a quarter inch of windshield between me and the shotgun.  Probably enough to absorb the pellets. Probably enough to buy a few seconds plus some spare change.

“Shit, mate!” I said. “Don’t shoot!”

He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. The shotgun didn’t waver.

“Still work?” he demanded.

I nodded.

“Give me the keys.”

“They’re in the cabin.”

“Get them slowly. Don’t try to be a hero, mate.”

There was an edge to the word ‘mate’. It sounded off, like he wasn’t used to saying it.

I reached into the cabin and removed the keys.

We stood in silence for a moment.

“Now!” he barked.

I tossed them underarm, deliberately threw wide, and they clattered to the side of the road.

He didn’t move.

His eyes and the barrel of the shotgun were still fixed on me.

“Pick them up,” he said patiently.

Hands raised, I moved towards the side of the road, bending slowly and picking them up. He snatched them from my hands and climbed into the cab, slammed the door and turned the key.

In the time it took for the engine to turn over, I’d grabbed the revolver, raise it quickly and had it trained on him. “Sergeant Steve Night, Holbrooke Police. Raise your hands slowly and step out of the truck.”

There were sirens in the distance.

Not a moment too soon.

Plus, there hadn’t been any weird bullshit.

Maybe today wouldn’t be a complete write off.  

“Hurry up,” I prompted. “Try not to be a dickhead about it.”

The man’s eyes blazed and he lunged towards the passenger door.

Jesus Christ.

He was out the other side and running into the paddock before I could react.

He was fast.

Clearing the corner of the truck, I raised my revolver and looked at him down the sights.

Ten years in Holbrooke and I’d never fired a shot.

My finger hovered over the trigger.

Before I had a chance to shoot, the man burst into flames.