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

‘No, no, nothing like that I don’t believe. I know that he does that to the slags he collects for pleasure and the girls he kindly shares around. The pass round girls, as he calls them. He does as he’s told and if you’ve told him no then that would be final. He’d just forgotten she might need to piss and ignored her for too long. She was bloody furious. Anyway, she had a bath and then a shower. She was in ages. I ordered food and she watched a film. I warned her not to expect to see Abid again as he’d been moved. He wouldn’t be returning to the flat and to expect someone new to the group. That’s all I said. I could see from her eyes she knew it was bullshit but then she knew what he’d done. There was no maths needed. Two and two make four. The puzzle for me and I think for you, bro, is how come the coppers found the flat so quickly?’

‘So, answer the fucking question, Sadiq. Where is she now if not back at her place. Here?’

‘No, no, bro. I’ve put her in a safe house alongside a friend and his wife. As the name suggests it’s secure and she’s working again.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ He stood and walked to the door. ‘Did you know they also found a medal and some kind of plastic disc? It’s mentioned alongside the photo. Maybe that’s how they tracked down the flat and if they’ve got to the flat then they know about Chelle. If he was clean then how come those things were found?’

‘Saw it on the police site but when we put him in the ground, he was clean. Could have come in on one of the tides or been in the sand when we buried him. It was dark so who knows? They weren’t with him when he was taken as he was as clean as the day he was born.’ Sadiq frowned. ‘Honestly, bro.’

‘Believe nothing … trust no one! Do you hear? I want a list of who was at the burial site.’

It was the first mistake Sadiq had made and they both knew it. Trust was never his strong point.

The printer next to April’s computer spewed out a single sheet of A4. She snatched it eagerly and read it before passing it to Lucy.

‘I don’t believe in fairy tales, for Christ’s sake. Snow White!’ Lucy chuckled, looking directly at April. ‘Snow White and what, the seven dwarves? This must be a wind up.’ She began to read on. ‘Snow White is believed to be the name of the gang working to the north of Liverpool. Bike and phone thefts, drug and arms running, general street violence and goodness knows what else.’ She turned to April. ‘We pay for this?’

There were four names listed and a series of incidents linked to each name.

Lucy read the names out loud, ‘Bit of a mixed bunch. Asif Rehman, Don Benson, Beverley Gittings, Mansoor Kamman. Your guy’s even given us their nicknames. Bully, Blusher, Scar and Doc. Not exactly original from the sound of it, and neither are they likely to be living with Snow White, apart from Doc, that is.’

She tossed the paper onto the desk, the action deliberate, clearly demonstrating her lack of belief in the intelligence.

April took note but remained silent whilst she added one of the names into the computer and waited. Within minutes it rewarded her with a case file for Don Benson.

‘Here we go. Born in St Helens before moving to Liverpool. Institutionalised, in and out since he was fourteen. Petty stuff before moving onto the drugs scene and then ABH. Can you believe only a fine given for that and no community order?’ They both looked at the mug shot. ‘Taken nine years ago. Puts him in his late teens. Height, five foot six.’

Lucy chuckled. ‘Now that might meet the criteria for one of Snow White’s boys.’

‘Don’t let Skeeter hear you! Don’t you see the relevance of the title? What’s white, expensive, consumed by middle-class professionals and delivered to their door by little people, usually kids, the final tip of the county lines?’

‘Bloody hell! I’m slow for a copper, sorry. Is there a current address?’ She noted April’s expression. ‘Thought not.’

To DC Pete Bradshaw, the morning had come late to what seemed today to be an inhospitable stretch of the River Mersey. The sky appeared to sag with the weight of the leaden overcast. The city behind still had a noise, a rumble, an awakening, that greeted the broad river. The tide was low, running deep, cold and an opaque grey colour that mirrored the sky. It ran out towards the estuary, the ever-open mouth, and then into the Irish Sea. Brad could taste the salty air borne on the breeze as his tongue ran across his lips. The distinct smell of ozone filled his nostrils. He leaned on the railing watching a gull skim the corrugated water’s surface before climbing high, and yet, to his amazement he was still startled by its shrill and sudden cry. Fascinated by its agility, and what seemed to him to be carefree flight, he admired its acrobatic, aerial morning ritual.

‘Bloody seagulls,’ he whispered, envying their freedom. He turned, walking to the bronze statue he knew so well and looked at it thoughtfully. It was of Captain F J Walker, Johnny, a man Brad had come to admire: the most famous submarine hunter of the Second World War. His strategy in catching prey reminded him of the people who were roaming the city on motorbikes attacking the unsuspecting. They seemed disciplined, well-trained and determined – a pack. Walker advocated a creeping attack and that was just what the bike gang performed. He and the rest of the team needed to apply a similar tactic to stop them, but would they? That depended on his new boss. Probably not. The distant call