| Abstrakt: |
THE neon lights of clubland flashed red on PC Michelle Tighe's face as she leaned forward to turn up the car's heater. She sank back into the passenger seat, asking herself for the last time: is he out here tonight? It would be 2am soon, pub closing time on a cold March night in Bristol, 1979. A few figures were already tumbling onto the pavements. A young man in a tight T-shirt and flares squinted drunkenly at their police car and put out his hand, trying to flag it down. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER] |
