Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2) Read online

  Chapter 2

  The trek along the canal from Appley Bridge to Parbold was one of Skeeter’s favourite runs. The River Douglas meandered lazily to the left, often appearing before turning to hide within trees and steep banks. Apart from the song of the early birds the quiet countryside was idyllic. Turning her wrist, she checked her heart rate monitor before moving off the towpath and heading along the farm track. Within fifteen minutes she would be pounding along Lees Lane before facing the gruelling Bank Brow to finish. It was an ascent that seemed to drain every ounce of her determination but filled her with a superior sense of satisfaction on reaching the summit. Leaning on the gate to her cottage she breathed deeply.

  ‘You’ll kill your bloody self one of these days, lass. Running’s for the guilty and the stupid and you don’t look like either to me.’ The voice erupted from the far side of the dividing hedge.

  It was usually the same words, if he happened to be out early, and she chuckled. ‘So you keep advising.’

  A plume of grey cigarette smoke escaped from his nostrils and drifted into the air. It appeared like a small, fast disappearing ghost rising mysteriously over the hedge as if signalling a new pope had been selected.

  ‘Taking the air, Tom?’

  He chuckled; her sarcasm was not lost. ‘Kind of. Wife doesn’t allow it inside now the decorators have been.’ He moved to where there was a gap in the foliage and winked at Skeeter before inhaling again.

  ‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this, Tom.’

  ‘Early morning liaisons. That’s a wicked thought to an old fella,’ he chuckled to himself. ‘I used to run a bit in my time. Not like you. Track stuff. Wigan Harriers when there was a stadium on Woodhouse Lane. All houses now, and before you were born. Happy days. Used to smoke then too, it seemed everyone did. Advertised them on the telly as being cool as mountain streams or made out you’d turn into a cowboy if you smoked enough of a certain brand.’

  More smoke filtered across the divide and Skeeter raised her nose allowing it to linger near her nostrils. The aroma was neither strong nor unpleasant. It soon vanished. Even so, she could never understand why people smoked, not now when one considered the financial cost.

  ‘Are you in work today, Skeeter?’ He stood and flicked the cigarette butt onto the road.

  ‘For my sins, Tom, for my sins.’ She smiled and raised a hand before walking down the path to the cottage door.

  Skeeter glanced right as she turned down Copy Lane. The Victorian style blue police lamp mounted by the door was clearly an anomaly, an anachronism set against the façade of the sixties’ architectural brashness. Within minutes, she entered the carpark to the rear. Grabbing her belongings, she made her way in. The welcome was warm and cheery. She was aware that on completion of the new station constructed on the old airport site at Speke, they might not be at the present site for much longer.

  ‘A good early morning, DS Warlock.’ The officer behind the desk smiled as he moved away returning with a lanyard and key pass. Checking the photograph on the swinging card he looked up. ‘You’re getting younger by the day, ma’am. Must be working here that does it!’ He grinned as he scanned the code into the system.

  Skeeter leaned over and grabbed it. ‘Witches never age. They do, however, have the power to lift the spirits of anyone they meet. Seeing you’re usually a grumpy sod when on this shift, the magic must be having the desired effect.’ Slipping the lanyard over her head, she returned the grin and moved towards the door.

  A reorganisation of the open-plan workspace had taken place over the last month and she and her desk had been promoted next to the window. Just above was a written sign: ‘Sod all view’. It had been there as long as she could remember and it was true. To compensate she had suspended a small stained-glass window, made by her boss as a thank-you gift after successfully solving a case. The hues, when the sunlight caught it, spread across her desk offering a magical splash of colourful drama.

  Within seconds of her sitting down, a paper dart floated into her peripheral vision and landed to the left of her desk.

  ‘You’re improving, Tony. More Bleriot than Bader, I think.’ She stood but could not see him.

  Popping his head round one of the new blue dividing panels he grinned. ‘Who the bloody hell are they when they’re at home?’

  Skeeter shook her head. ‘Pilots, Tony. What do you want?’

  ‘Just a morning greeting. Being friendly, like. Tear anyone to pieces at that wrestling club of yours last night?’

  Skeeter had been a member of a Wigan wrestling club since she was a child. It enthralled her. She loved the discipline, the technical aspects and the sheer hard work, attributes that had drawn her to becoming a copper. Her father and grandfather had been members of the wrestling club too, one going back to Riley’s time. During this period no women were allowed and even the thought of the fairer sex within the club would have brought revolt. Its reputation had grown as more and more wrestlers became world famous. Times had changed and the women now played a key role. Skeeter had the heart of a lion and she sported a number of scars to prove it. The cauliflower ear gave her appearance a certain gravitas – she looked, as they say in the north, hard, dead hard. Certainly, what you saw was what you got. She was also tattooed with her favourite motto, a code she lived and worked by: By any available means or method. The words were written in Latin, hidden but always present.

  She laughed. ‘Training night with the Tumble Tots, the kids. Great fun and it takes me back to my first days at the club. I was just going to sort out the paperwork for the wagon theft from Brintonwood Trading Estate until your attempt at making and flying Concorde crashed at my feet.’ She chuckled. ‘Trailer found empty and should’ve been full of white goods. The cab? My experience tells me it’ll be on its way through Europe by now. Then we’ve a missing person, young woman, if twenty-eight is still considered young. Seeing the boss in ten.’

  Detective Inspector April Decent read through the files for the fourth time. She added the name Carla Sharpe to a white board positioned on the wall to her right before tagging in the date and the time she was last seen. She glanced at the clock on the far wall. April had been with the Merseyside Force for just short of five months. Although there was an initial fear and concern that she had made the wrong career choice, she soon discovered her team was equally as efficient as the one she had been part of in Yorkshire. She had formed a particularly strong bond with Skeeter, her sergeant in Serious Crime. Here was a colleague she could rely on and the more she discovered about her, both professionally and personally, the more impressed she was. At that moment she heard the tap on her door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Skeeter popped her head round the door and pushed it open before bending to collect the second mug of coffee from the floor.

  ‘Brought coffee.’ She raised her eyebrows.

  April pointed to the chair. ‘Spitting feathers and ready for one. Thanks. I believe we’ve traced the stolen goods from the trading estate?’

  ‘Routine stop on the M6 south. Two vans. However, the trailer’s long gone. Passed the details to Tony who tells me Michael will chase up the loose ends when he’s in later. He’ll do all the boring bits, the links with the continent and the border force.’

  DC Michael Peet always worked the late shift. It had become a habit that he relished. The station was quiet then and there was more quality time to put the cases into perspective. He could think, apply logic. If it were a puzzle, a conundrum, then he was the man with whom to leave it. His ambition had always been to enter law. He had the academic and mental agility to be a barrister but his partner, falling pregnant in their second year at university, put a stop to that. Originally, it was to be a temporary suspension of ambition but Murphy’s Law was swiftly applied and he found himself with a second and then a third child. As luck would have it, he was now more content than at any previous time in his career. His entry to the force had been to him a retrograde step but those above him in the force had
swiftly seen his true potential. He had a clear and full understanding of the law; he was unpretentious and wrestled challenges with determination. Importantly, he was not one to concede. His love for the job was evident.

  Chapter 3

  His hand worked quickly, scribbling the details of the items of clothing into the note pad, paying particular attention to the colours. To be successful, he had to be precise in all respects to give the overall impression that nothing had changed. The fluorescent coat was easy and even the goggles he could find at any DIY store. They could be re-used should the need arise. Blue trousers and wellington boots, it seemed too easy. The clothing should not be new and if it were, it would be purchased outside the area. He would buy at different times at different shops. He took four more photographs using the zoom to highlight the details. He had no need to leave the car and certainly it would be careless to walk too near. The measurement of height and general size was less important. They were what they were, and he could not change that. Last on the list were three CDs – he would find these at a charity shop. Choosing their titles would make for an interesting game.

  A tractor droned some distance away as he looked out across the newly planted field to spot the offending article. There was something relaxing about agricultural toil, something honest. The birds, white against the grey sky, seemed to dance behind the piper. The smell of newly ploughed soil permeated the car and he took a moment to savour the peace before turning to concentrate on the booklet he had retrieved from the glovebox. His fingers flicked over the pages one at a time. Each held a photograph. There were five. The candid images were slightly blurred, screen captures from the video he had taken, but they were clear enough. They had, after all, returned repeatedly night after night in his dream. They were as familiar as family. He remembered each with a certain clarity. Three were male, two were female. What tied each to the next? Each one had been captured staring at the camera but it was clear from their expression that they were unaware that they had been snapped. This was all part of the game.

  The dashboard clock showed 6.56am. It was time to leave. He had work to do.

  Tracking the man had been easy. Watching the group’s familiarity with one of the bar staff had been convincing enough and once they had left; he had managed a quiet word. Pretending he knew their faces yet being unable to recall their names had brought the answers he needed: Cameron Jennings and Bill Rodgers. He could visualise both but Bill’s features filled his mind. He was the one of the pair who would wait. It was Cameron, the person on the outside of the group, the shorter of the two, he wanted to focus on for now. Facebook was the next call and sure enough with that one search he had the group. They were all friends. Finding the place of work for one came as an additional bonus; he had not expected to be so lucky. A female too, Carla Sharpe, was the perfect way to begin.

  He could not remember seeing fear like it. The tears, the dribbling snot that ran over the roughly tied material that brought a rictus type grin to what was a pretty face. It exposed her teeth and gums spreading her mouth wide. Mascara had run in two rivulets down either cheek before ending at the mouth. He had taped both arms to those of the director’s chair. Her feet locked round either leg before tape secured them in place. It had been an astute thought in the planning to bracket the chair’s legs to the garage’s concrete floor. He really did not want his guests to leave or move without his consent. Milky grey light spread throughout the room; it was only an adequate illumination but it sufficed. The dirt covered window, opaque and wired was more to keep people out than allow the day to enter.

  Strangely, there was no recognition initially, not a glimmer but as soon as she heard him say the words, Leave him Bill, it was my fault, there was a moment of understanding. As to the specific occasion she was clearly uncertain. It seemed that this experience with the group that night, with Bill turning aggressive, was such a common occurrence that one would easily blend with another.

  ‘Is Bill always like that, Carla?’

  Her eyes opened wider on hearing her name and she snorted, the porcine utterance deep and filled with fear.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault but you knew that. You laughed. I know you did. I was there, the innocent stranger. You hoped Bill would perform his party trick and you laughed at my fear, my anguish. What normally happened, Carla? Let me guess. Bill’s a bit of a bully. Handy with his fists. Drinks a lot and then can’t control his inner demons and he strikes out at whoever upsets him or insults one of the group. Maybe he defends you, Carla. You and the others think it’s fun to watch. You had no compassion that night, you demonstrated no human kindness. You did nothing. I’ve always been bullied. There is one thing that I am though. Unlike Bill, I’m patient. It took a while to find you. Time to plan when I could take you without being seen. You made it easy. Headphones on and running alone on the same route. It was perfect – you actually believed me when I stopped you. I have that kind of face, my mother always said so.’ He turned briefly to see himself in the mirror hanging on the wall. ‘Sorry, Carla. Now, to what were you listening?’

  Without removing the gag, she could not answer. He lifted her mobile, took her finger and activated it. ‘Let’s just have a look before we change your print entry to a password. Now look at that. How apposite. You were listening to something called ‘Dark Lane Demo Tapes’ by Drake whoever he or she is.’ He listened to one of the tracks holding her headphones to his ear before moving it to hers. ‘A male voice I think.’

  ‘Was it this you were listening to?’

  She nodded feverishly.

  ‘You’d nod at the moon if I asked right now, girl. If I were in your shoes then so too would I.’ He leaned over and his hand patted hers. ‘In a minute I want you to do as I say. Nod if you understand.’

  Carla’s frightened eyes looked towards his as tears rolled down the dark mascara avenues.

  Skeeter drained the final dregs of coffee from her mug allowing it then to swing on her finger whilst she looked at the file notes. ‘I see she has a record. Not exactly the world’s worst criminal though.’ She slipped the mug onto the desk. ‘Drunk and disorderly at Aintree Ladies’ Day weekend last year. How many have been guilty of that little faux pas? And reported by a witness as having been involved in an altercation on a Saturday night outside the Blue Boar on Lord Street, Southport, six months ago.’ She flicked over the page. ‘A beauty therapist, whatever that means, and she’s single. Twenty-eight and single?’

  April just watched Skeeter whilst using her two fingers as drum sticks to tap out a muted rhythm on the edge of the desk. Skeeter turned. ‘Once worked with a bloke who used to play a desk. He’d put on some piano music, walk up to his desk as if he were approaching a grand piano and pretend to flick the tails on his coat. He’d do all the stretching exercises with his fingers and then mime away, all the finger and hand flicking, but what used to crack me up was his facial expression. Each note produced a different face. He was great fun. Good copper too. Was killed trying to stop a stolen car.’

  April stopped playing. ‘I was enjoying your story until the last sentence. Finger tapping? A habit that seems to help me think.’ She looked at her hands.

  ‘Getting run down? All part of the job on the thin blue line. I see we have an address. Was anything found there?’

  ‘Apparently she came out of a long-term relationship about nine months ago. Moved to her present address. Trying to get access from the landlord. We’ve contacted the ex-partner, Callum Smith. He’d heard she’d gone missing from Carla’s friend, Debbie Sutch, the person who called us. She’d been ringing round and believed she might have gone back to him. Apparently, she missed a lunch appointment with her. This friend, had called at her flat when she failed to turn up and she couldn’t contact her by phone. Smith was interviewed but he hadn’t seen her for a month or so. He lives in Upton on the Wirral. Works as a yoga teacher and personal trainer. No previous record with the police.’

  ‘Is there a number for him?’ Skeeter turned, grinned an
d winked. ‘Just asking for a friend like.’

  They both giggled.

  ‘According to Sutch, Carla was well in herself. Enjoyed her work and socialising. Apparently, she’d given up men apart from, and I quote: “the occasional quick shag”.’

  Skeeter immediately turned to look at April. ‘That can be a dangerous game, especially if she changes her mind at the last minute. Do we have any names?’

  April shook her head.

  ‘And the last …’ Skeeter didn’t finish.

  ‘According to Debbie they were together the evening before, drink and an Italian meal.’ April checked the file. ‘Presso on Lord Street by the Cenotaph. She even dropped her at her flat. Carla had been working late. They met at eight. They were meant to be lunching the following day so unless she went out afterwards … Sutch was the last person to see her. We have an officer checking with the neighbours now.’

  ‘Did Carla have any set routines?’ Skeeter enquired flicking deeper into the file.

  ‘Like you, she ran. According to Debbie Sutch she jogged most mornings before work. Obsessed with the fear of losing her figure as she got older, allegedly. Work was normally a 10am start but she wasn’t working the day they were meeting for lunch. She was unsure as to whether she exercised on her day off.’

  ‘Nothing else? Gym, coffee shop?’

  April shook her head. ‘Not that we know.’

  ‘List of other acquaintances? Friends, work colleagues?’

  April slid a sheet of paper over the desk. ‘Both. I want you and Tony to call at Nic’s Nails and Beauty, and I’ve sent Lucy Teraoka and Fred Quinn to interview her friends. There’s one in particular I’m very interested in.’ She collected a drumstick from the in tray, leaned over and let the tip fall on one name. ‘William Rodgers. Interesting record. In the book for affray five years ago. Criminal offence and served six months. Unusually, and luckily for him, he was tried in the Magistrates’ Court. I put the word round and he has a reputation for being a bit of a thug and football hooligan too. Lucy’s aware of the need for caution with that one and he’s been invited to the station rather than interviewing him at his home. I’ve planned a briefing for 8am tomorrow to collate what we know. Let’s hope Carla’s been found before then.’