Catch as Catch Can (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 1) by Malcolm Hollingdrake (any book recommendations .txt) 📗

more preventative structures, like the closing of a door after the horse has gone. Tony’s words broke into her thoughts.

‘Mounted and ran along the pavement before swerving between pedestrians and then they were away. Nobody hurt other than having their things stolen.’

‘And their confidence shaken, don’t forget.’

A high-pitched scream of a moped made both officers turn but their fears were quickly allayed; the rider’s fluorescent jacket and the red learner plate attached to the rear number plate made them both smile and relax.

‘That’s the problem,’ Tony continued. ‘It’s the same with the terrorists using vehicles to mow down innocent people. We’re surrounded by cars, buses and wagons and some are parked on the pavements or delivering in pedestrian areas. You can’t be on your guard all of the time and that’s the key to their success. People don’t expect them. Many are wired for sound and oblivious to what’s going on. They are never forewarned. They make perfect victims, they’re vulnerable and easy.’

Chapter 7

The narrow street flanked by terraced houses seemed claustrophobic, their proximity denuding the direct sunlight. Every house, although built at the same time using the same materials, looked different. Some still displayed their original brickwork whilst others were painted in various colours in an attempt to modernise their appearance. In many ways, time had been cruel. They were what they were and however many coats of paint were applied they would never be anything different.

On the pavement, leaning against or stuffed behind a downspout that ran down the heavily graffiti-daubed wall, lay a number of wilted remnants of bouquets of flowers, glass candle holders and two small bedraggled teddy bears. They had been left there two weeks previously to remember a victim of some turf war gang knife crime, their presence now having no effect on those passing by. The murder was simply a moment, a heartbeat in the city’s history and it would not be the last. It might not be the last by the end of the day, the observer knew as he read one of the inscriptions.

Allways in our thoughts and we prey each day for you to be with the angles.

xx

The spelling errors somehow made the sentiment even more poignant. He tucked the card into his pocket before standing to look to the far end of the street. As if blocking the exit was the dominating presence of Goodison Park. With all the talk of the new stadium down by the docks, it might not be there much longer. He began to walk along the street. A dog barked, trapped behind one of the many doors; telephone wires hung lazily across the void. A suspended pair of training shoes oscillated their warning in the light breeze. Within a few minutes he would arrive at the shop.

Thin strands of light squeezed through the edges of a second-floor window. Even though they appeared razor sharp, they lost their battle to cut through the blackout material and allow in adequate light. There was a stale smell of urine in the room, mixed with the stronger smell of kebab and garlic. The bed on which Chelle lay gave little comfort. With one wrist secured using an electrician’s cable to the metal frame, she had a limited range of movement. If she listened carefully, she could hear music and the occasional passing car. Twice she had heard the distant wail of a police siren and her heart had fluttered, a mixture of excitement and fear but this had quickly been replaced by the bitterness of disappointment. The music was Middle Eastern or African, definitely unusual and only broken by raised human voices. She neither understood nor recognised the language spoken. It was as if she had been transported to some distant place but she knew just where she was, she was within walking distance of her flat; she had come here voluntarily.

It had been about five days since she had been brought to the room. Someone important wanted to see her, a reward they had said. She had come willingly, thinking her bloke might be there. She had not seen him for a while which was not unusual. She would be told he was travelling, on business. Sometimes they had to lie low, but now this. She had been searched and her flat key and phone confiscated. The consolation was that she had received some of her clothes. The days were cruel, often passing slowly and her protests fell on deaf ears. All had been acceptable until they cable tied her wrist to the bed frame. It was then she realised the reward would not materialise.

Chelle could not remember the last time she had wet any bed she had slept on but today she had no choice. Despite calling out, her captors had been deaf to her pleas. She had wept, frightened of what they would think or say. If only she had known it, these simple, silly thoughts should have been the least of her worries.

The sign over the main shop window proudly announced the takeaway served: Pizza, Kebab and Fish and Chips. The white lettering contrasted with the blue background. In this part of the city, it would not be painted red. Damaged and bent Just Eat signs were displayed on either side and in the upper window. A green food hygiene sticker placed almost as high showed that they had achieved one out of five stars; surprisingly, not the lowest score.

Just sit on your fat arses and we’ll bring the unhealthy stuff to you, he said to himself. No wonder everyone’s getting so fucking fat.

He pushed open the door knowing what aroma that would greet him, after all it was like a third home. Malik heard the bell and turned. The light layer of sweat covering his bald head reflected the yellowing strip lights that ran the length of the room, giving his skin a jaundiced appearance. In his hand was a long-bladed knife that he had been using to