Piccadilly Village, Manchester – 4.07am

Though it was impossible to tell from the scowl on his face, Angus Fisk was happy.

This was his time, the magical hours between the last of the late-night revelers collapsing face-first into a sofa splattered with their own vomit and the first appearance of the early-morning fitness freaks, straining against their too-tight Lycra. Those precious hours when the streets were empty and you could almost imagine that the city had been deserted.

Those were the hours that Angus lived for, and now some fucker had decided to ruin them by dredging a body out of the Ashton Canal.

The air was cold and though it had stopped raining, it was only a matter of time before it started again. Angus turned up his collar as he stalked along the side of the canal, towards the torch-beams sweeping through the gloom. The uniforms had already taped off the section of the canal where the body had been found - but taping off a crime scene smack in the middle of a residential area was about as effective in deterring interference as erecting a ten-foot neon sign that played the Benny Hill theme on infinite loop, all the while proclaiming to the world: EVERYBODY - HERE'S THE CRIME!

As Angus ducked under the yellow tape, one of the uniforms protecting the scene perimeter flashed a torch beam into his eyes. He squinted, the after-burn of the torchlight lingering like a smear of petrol over his vision. The beam dipped and Fisk picked out the familiar face of a beat constable. “DI Fisk, morning. DS Wright's just up ahead-”

Only half listening, Angus's eyes swiveled across the surrounding area in a scouring glance before his focus settled on the familiar figure of Detective Sergeant Nina Wright, twenty-five feet in front of them on the canal side path. “Walk and talk, constable.”

“Victims an IC4, male, late twenties, DOA. Body was found in the canal by a passer-by. Literally fell and landed on him.”

They passed by a pair of uniformed officers standing beside a young man wrapped in what looked like an over-sized sheet of tin-foil, damp hair plastered to his forehead. Typical. It wouldn't be a proper night in Manchester if there wasn't a least one inebriated arsehole falling into somewhere he shouldn't be falling. Ordinarily, they'd at least wait until it was deep into winter before trying to prove you could skate on the canal.

“So cautionary tale back there takes a moonlight dip and comes out with more than just a fistful of used condoms. What about all these gawping fucks?”

Angus jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Flanking both sides of the canal were three story flats, many with window balconies directly overlooking the footpaths that skirted the water. Red brick and wrought iron, expensive enough that no one came out-doors to see what was going on – though there were a few faces in lit windows, mouthing into mobile phones as they watched what was unfolding below.

“Preliminary survey's under-way, but nothing so far.”

Angus lengthened his stride - the unspoken yet universally understood code for I'm done with you - as they neared where Nina stood, watching the corpse intently.

“Sergeant, what am I looking it?”