Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2) - Malcolm Hollingdrake (world of reading TXT) 📗

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.’