Inspector White looked at the latest mugging report with a frown. There had been a spate of them over the last few weeks in the vicinity of Low Street but the latest wasn't part of the pattern. He pressed his intercom. "Peters? Would you come in here, please?"
Sergeant Peters appeared a moment later, looking far too chirpy for seven thirty in the morning, his cheeks hamster-stuffed with the remains of a canteen bacon butty and a mug of builder's tea. "Morning, sir!"
White laid out several photographs of recent mugging victims. "Tell me about these, Peters."
"You already know the details, sir." He put down his mug and pointed to the first. "Eleanor Bradford, 52, mugged on Brick Kiln Lane. Contusions to the head and arms and lost £102.70." He moved to the second photograph. "Victor Wainwright, 71, mugged on George Street for £40. Contusions to the face and head and a broken left arm." The third photograph prompted: "Mary Ruthbridge, 67. Mugged in her back garden as she was pegging out the washing for the princely sum of £34 and change."
White nodded, remembering the details, the faces of the victims as they lay in the hospital ward. 'No, Inspector. I didn't see him. Not a glimpse.' He tapped the last photograph. "And this one?"
"That was last night, sir. Gary Dashfield, 31. Lateral blunt force trauma to both hands but the attacker was disturbed."
"Why do you say that?"
Peters shrugged. "There was nothing taken."
"I have a different theory." White collected the photographs up. "Investigate Dashfield for the muggings. I think we have a vigilante on our hands."