Grey Death - a Murder Mystery

Tonight, he’s a dirt-smeared homeless drug addict called Gus. Introductions are never necessary, but it’s easier to become a character with a name.
Hood pulled down low, fists tucked into his armpits, frost pricking at his face like tiny nettle stings, he shelters in the jitty between 15 and 17 Priory Street, monitoring the comings and goings across the road at Number 12.
Christmas lights and TV screens flicker across front room windows along the terraced street, while the windows of his target are as dark as a cave. Out front, a pair of trainers are slung over a broken streetlight.
December the sixth, just gone half eight. He’s been watching them on and off for three months. In and out on their scooters, the times they leave with deliveries, how long they stay out, and the best time for a pickup. The faces and routines of the men who deal at the door are imprinted on his memory.
Dope, smack, skunk, skag, junk, H, horse, brown. Call it what the hell you like. Heroin is always the best deal in town, and somewhere in a crawlspace of his mind, he can see that first drop on the tip of a needle.
With Volkov’s help, he’ll empty this nest of County Lines cuckoos within the hour and be home by ten.