Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2) Read online

  Skeeter raised her eyebrows as she looked carefully around the machine.

  ‘This camera here,’ he pointed to what appeared to be a small black box, ‘is a Z30 meaning it has a thirty times optical zoom. I’ll demonstrate later. This is an XTR thermal imaging camera, it’s radio metric …’ He stopped as the confused look appeared on her face. ‘We can pick people and animals out in the dark. Come on, we’ll fly it. You need to see it for real.’ He tossed her a high visibility jacket, a hard hat and some safety goggles. ‘Elf and safety. It’s the law!’

  The copter stood on a spot marked ‘H’, a dedicated pad used for checking and calibrating. Skeeter watched as Steve conducted a pre-flight check before returning to the control panel. Slipping the straps over his head the panel sat on his chest.

  ‘You see the red flashing lights?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It’s going through a sequence checking all its systems before flight. When they turn green, Amy’s ready.’

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘I’ve called it after Amy Johnson, the British aviatrix. Nice eh?’

  ‘She died on her last flight from Blackpool. Probably flew over where we are now if my history serves me correctly. Brave woman.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. Knowing that now, maybe I should change its name.’

  The copter climbed effortlessly into the air and the undercarriage lifted two stork-like legs to the horizontal making Skeeter chuckle before it hovered above them. The sound was not as intense as she had expected.

  ‘We have to be conscious of Liverpool airport. This building is on the old airfield site but otherwise we can go to four hundred feet. It’s got its own transponder and those in air traffic can see and identify it as ours and therefore know it’s legitimate.’ He removed his hands before waggling them and grinned almost childlike as the drone hovered freely. ‘Well, not always! It will stay there until the batteries nearly run out and then it’ll return to the point of take-off.’

  ‘Can you take it just out of sight so I can listen for it, Steve?’

  The copter flew rapidly behind the building, climbing steadily.

  ‘Find it!’ Steve announced as Skeeter checked the sky. She could hear the light droning but it was generally lost against the surrounding buildings. The noise, however, was not too dissimilar to that she had heard at the farm.

  ‘Nope. Can’t see it.’ She swivelled her head trying to locate it through the sound.

  Within minutes, it hovered above them, and the legs lowered in tandem with the descending craft before it touched down on the ‘H’.

  ‘That’s it really. Apart from training, getting a commercial licence, experience and good looks!’ He winked as he removed the controller from around his neck. ‘And you also owe me a beer!’

  Skeeter chatted for longer than she had planned; she liked Steve. Once back inside they looked at the amateur footage showing the discovery of Jennings’s body, taken from the drone.

  ‘That was probably an early drone looking at those images. The camera quality is very poor. We face a lot of issues with people flying them either too high or too near restricted areas. Like all things, you’ll always get those who flout the rules.’

  They looked through the file and found the pilot’s name and his address.

  ‘Interviewed on the day at the site. Took his micro SD card. Was that ever returned?’

  Skeeter scrolled down the report. The receipt had been issued but it appeared the card was still held at Forensics. ‘They were trying to enhance the images, I believe.’

  Steve shook his head. ‘They can do the impossible, but miracles? Sorry, that’s a compromised film, it’ll just pixilate.’

  Skeeter made a note and tucked it into her pocket. ‘I’ve taken too much of your time. Thanks.’

  ‘Anytime. You know where I am. Don’t forget to book me when you decide to fly to Ibiza and don’t forget the beer!’

  Skeeter stuck up her thumb. Once at the car she entered the postcode of the address she had jotted down from the report. She would collect the micro SD card and then a visit would be in order.

  Chapter 19

  Simon Taylor crossed Canada Boulevard at the Pier Head and found the bench facing the statue of Edward VII. It was not the best of views as the Mersey Ferries building blocked the panorama of the river frontage. However, this was the location Craufurd had requested and it was within easy walking distance from his apartment. He sipped a coffee he had collected on route. The area in front of the Liver building was always a busy promenade, what with the relatively new statue of the Beatles and the exposed canal it attracted both workers and tourists alike. Facing south also had its advantages. Today was no exception and the warmth and the bounce of the light from the grey granite sets made it a pleasant place to sit.

  To hear someone shout they were on George Parade and it was obviously named after George Harrison brought a smile. He hoped they would go on to find John Street, Paul Street and Ringo Starr Drive but he doubted they would bother. From the corner of his eye, he saw Craufurd approaching.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What a bloody last few days. I suppose you’ve heard about Carla?’

  ‘On the news. Dangerous area you live in at the moment, my friend. I believe you’ve met them all? Jennings was it? Then there’s this chap, the latest. Discovered on the top of the carpark. Glad I moved, Craufurd. Much safer. Cop shop almost next door too.’ He smiled and sipped his coffee. ‘What can I do for you that we couldn’t manage over the internet?’

  ‘I have a painting in the car I’m interested in selling. I could put it through auction but you know how long-winded that can be. It’s too big to carry here. It’s in the carpark on Princes Parade.’

  They both stood, Simon dropping his coffee cup into the first litter bin.

  The drive from Speke to Waterloo via Copy Lane Police Station was quicker than Skeeter had expected. She had elected to take the M57 and avoid the city centre traffic. The houses along Tudor Road were not what she was expecting. Not all of the houses were designed the same, some had an Art Deco feel, many were painted in cream or magnolia. Their curved frontage gave them a genteel appearance. However, it soon became clear the house for which Skeeter searched was not in the same league. It stood out like a blackening tooth in a white smile. She parked at the front and checked the address. A large tree looked to have punctured the tarmac and shaded the frontage.

  The gate hung on one hinge; the painted wrought iron was scaled and flaking. The garden was overgrown but still retained a vestige of design. Skeeter noticed the curtain of the house next door move as she approached the front door. The curved window to the left was blinded by yellowing net curtains that rested on the inner window sill. A number of dead flies were trapped in the folds. She knocked on the door before glancing round. Moving away, she looked up at the bedroom windows and then the guttering of the overhanging roof. Rosebay willowherb had taken hold along its length. Skeeter moved under the semi-circular door cover and knocked again.

  ‘He’s out! Out since early doors. Always out.’

  Skeeter turned to address the neighbour. She had progressed from lifting the curtain to monitor the movements of a stranger to direct confrontation. As a police officer, Skeeter was impressed.

  ‘What time did he leave, and more importantly, what time does he get back?’

  The difference between the two properties was marked. The front was unpainted but pebble dashed, the hanging baskets were ordered and recently planted and the garden immaculate. You could tell there was no car in the household as the drive comprised different ornaments and pots.

  ‘Are you Social Services?’

  Skeeter shook her head. ‘No, just need some help.’

  ‘Help? Come to the wrong address there then love. Your eye looks sore. Can’t help himself let alone others. Look at the state of the garden. Wasn’t always like this. When his mother was alive it was beautiful, best on the road. She was so precise and when s
he passed away her son just let it go to this. No concern for anyone else.’

  Skeeter knew from the report that he had not worked for some time. He had referred to his depression when first interviewed, detailing the trauma stemming from his mother’s death. He had stopped working at Jaguar, Speke around the same time. She was also aware there was now no car registered to this address.

  ‘My name’s Skeeter. I used to work with him. And you?’

  ‘Joan, love. Pleased to meet you. Shall I tell him you called?’

  ‘No, I’ll pop back. Could you give me a ring when he returns? I’d love to surprise Trevor if I can, sooner rather than later.’ She jotted down her number and passed it over the fence.

  ‘I’ll need my specs. I’ll do that, love.’

  ‘Surprise remember, Joan, love.’ She just had to add the word ‘love’.

  ‘You’d think working at Jaguar he’d have a car. We get discount.’

  ‘Bicycle, one of those electric ones. Goes everywhere on it laden to the gunwales some days with bits and bobs.’

  Simon Taylor stood back from the estate car as Craufurd opened the tailgate. The rear seats had been folded flat. A large object rested beneath a tartan rug. Flicking back the corner, Craufurd exposed the high gloss abstract art work. He immediately raised his eyes to look directly at Taylor.

  ‘Can we prop it against the back?’

  The painting was removed and placed so the light from the gaps running along the edge of the building flooded onto it. Once positioned, Craufurd moved to stand at Taylor’s side.

  ‘I’ve been redesigning some offices and this was in their boardroom. The colours are just not appropriate for what they had specified and so when the new work was installed, I bought it. It was just too good for the skip!’

  ‘So why the intrigue – “I’ll bring it and meet you.”’ His voice mimicked Craufurd’s. ‘We usually deal on the net. If the price is right you know I’d have bought it.’

  ‘I needed a word, face to face.’

  Taylor turned away from the picture.

  ‘Have the police paid you any visits regarding Carla Sharpe and the apartment?’

  A car passed and they both moved to the side.

  ‘Yes, they were curious about my friendship with Carla and Smith but they were also asking about Jennings. I’d met them, of course, at the parties. I told them, too, how I first met her. Couldn’t believe it when I read it was murder. Such a bloody waste.’ Pausing, he moved and focused on the art work, momentarily allowing his finger to rub the high gloss sheen. It was cold to the touch. ‘Three now I believe, and all three came to your apartment – well, technically, it was their apartment if we’re being pedantic. You could have asked that on the phone.’

  Craufurd moved closer. ‘That’s true, Simon, very true but then …’

  Skeeter had just turned approaching Copy Lane, when her phone rang.

  ‘Is that you Skeeter? It’s me.’

  ‘Joan, love?’ Skeeter answered.

  ‘Yes! Joan, love. He’s back. I’ve not said anything. He’s put his bicycle down the side of the house and into the garage at the back.’

  Skeeter wasted no time. From her present position it took her only fifteen minutes to return.

  The same curtain twitched, identical to the circumstances of her first visit, but then a small hand appeared and Joan raised a thumb as if signalling all was well. Skeeter chuckled to herself as she knocked on the door. It was then she sensed she was being watched by someone close. Leaning to look back at the neighbour’s window she saw the curtain was no longer strained to the side. It was on turning back she saw him standing some way from the front window, the gap in the net curtains slightly parted. Skeeter stared back before producing her ID and slapping it against the window. The figure moved forward and looked. Nodding his head, he immediately vanished from view. Seconds later, the door opened. A smell of bacon escaped and took refuge in her nostrils making her mouth water.

  ‘Trevor Thomas? That’s a welcome aroma. Not had a bacon butty for quite some time.’

  The non-threatening interaction brought a smile. ‘Is it about my video? You still have my micro SD and they’re not cheap.’

  From her pocket she took a plastic forensic bag. His name and the date received were clearly marked. ‘Long overdue, sorry. May I have a minute of your time?’

  Trevor moved to one side directing her to the door to the left of the hallway. It was neither conventional nor was it what she expected. The walls were organised with aerial images, many seemingly out of focus but still fascinating. She instantly recognised the Gormley figures situated along the coast, many submerged at various depths. Then there was an aerial picture of the lighthouse at Fort Perch Rock, New Brighton. From the ceiling hung models of aircraft, each meticulously painted. They encapsulated a history of aviation and she immediately thought of Tony and his paper dart.

  Trevor pulled a chair from behind a desk. She realised it was where he had been when she knocked. He invited her to sit. He looked directly at her. It was a rare occurrence when someone did not find eye to eye contact uncomfortable.

  ‘How may I assist you on this occasion?’ There was no hint of an accent in his voice, certainly there was no Scouse lurking within the vowels. ‘Strange affair, that. I haven’t returned to that area with my drone.’ He pointed to the machine on the desk.

  ‘To be honest, Mr Thomas, I’m not surprised. No, it’s not really to do with that, just taking the opportunity to return your property. I must tell you it has been formatted as I’m sure you wouldn’t want to keep the images you witnessed. I just thought I’d ask about that.’ She pointed to his drone. ‘Since this case I have to admit to being fascinated by them.’

  ‘This is a cheap one. I’d love one of the new models but since mother passed and with losing my job, it would definitely be a luxury I can’t afford.’

  ‘My condolences, I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘They were kind at work and kept me on but I felt I was a drain and a burden so I quit before I was pushed. Like life really. I was just putting some coloured decorative film on the drone, makes it more personal. You can get all sorts of patterns now and it’s cheaper than a new one.’

  Skeeter stood and studied the patterned design on part of the machine. A craft knife sat nearby and she felt the hairs on her arms rise.

  ‘You’ll certainly see that coming!’

  ‘They’re so hard to see when they’re against foliage so I thought I’d try this.’ He picked it up. ‘Weighs nothing but will travel at twenty-five miles per hour. Hover at the same spot unaided until the battery fades and then it will return home – to the spot it started from. If only the camera was better.’

  She recalled Steve saying the same thing.

  ‘You could set that to hover and go off for a coffee, and when you returned it would still be sitting there at the height you set?’

  ‘More or less. Seventeen satellites control it. The newer ones are even better.’

  ‘Where do you fly, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘Usually where there are no people. That spot near Southport was wonderful. The countryside is lovely too.’

  ‘Have you ever flown near Midge Mill Lane?’

  There was an immediate sense of tension as Thomas looked away. ‘No, no. Where’s that?’

  Skeeter explained where it was but he informed her he had not flown there. He quickly changed the subject.

  ‘I see you have three dead now. It was in the news, on constantly, but now? It’s as if they never existed. Like mum. At first, she was always in my head. This place was beautiful when she was alive, she lived for the garden. Nature soon takes it back.’ He moved to the window and lifted the net curtain. The carapace of what appeared to be a large spider dropped onto the sill to add to the collection. ‘All that hard work. This was beautiful all year round. You can ask anyone on here. But now she’s gone, it’s gone with her. It’s as if she was never here sometimes and that’s what I find hard. I still
have all her things and I’ve not touched her room. Just haven’t got the will or the inclination. Have you ever lost someone close?’

  Skeeter knew not to get involved; she was neither a social worker nor did she really care enough to enter into conversation involving personal matters. The neighbour had made her aware of his mental instability and from this brief exchange with him it was clear he was treading a personal tightrope of frustration and guilt. She was not a psychologist but she knew confusion and resentment were often the traits seen in both victims and perpetrators. She had discovered what she had come for but her curiosity demanded more time.

  ‘You could garden, surely. The fresh air would do you good, and you’d see the benefits of your labour.’

  He turned dropping the curtain, disturbing the dead flies and insects yet again, in some cases enshrouding them in yellowing netting. ‘It’s dead time gardening, I told her that.’

  ‘And what did she say?’ Skeeter laughed as if to make light of the situation. The mood was changing.

  His facial expression did not alter.

  ‘She said I was just like my father.’

  ‘Was that wrong?’

  ‘No, he never did much other than watch TV and go to football. She used to say I needed to find the love of a good woman too but …’