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

Liaison Team. You and your staff have each other but you may also need some professional support during this traumatic time. Please, use it, it’s free. Don’t suffer alone. Don’t hesitate to call it.’

His final statement was powerful. She had assured him she would and thanked him. He closed by offering his personal condolences.

Brian had stopped crying and lifted his head from her chest. ‘I’m sorry, look, I’ve wet your uniform.’ Taking his face in her hands she turned it so they were eye to eye.

‘We need each other now, Carlos. We’re going to see her and hear her in our heads. She was a massive part of your life, and mine, and she was present in this very space. We must mourn her leaving us so soon, but we must remember her in the way she would want us to. That means her laugh, her energy and her mischief. I will have her saying written on the wall in your treatment room, a room she wanted you to use. Let’s say it together.’

‘“Life is for living – just live it!”’

They hugged again.

‘Maybe you should go home. I’ll cancel your clients for the day.’

Still living at home with his mother would make it difficult for him to grieve. He refused. He realised that he wanted to be where she once was and he felt as though she would always be with him.

‘Thanks, I’ll stay. You understand me more than my mum. Let’s brush ourselves down and begin the day again. I have clients, and what would Carla do? Live life!’ They both laughed, an inhibited and false laugh but one that was understandable.

He wandered into Carla’s treatment room and lay on the couch. His tears had released a torrent of emotions. He had not cried as much since his father died but this loss seemed even greater. She had been young and her life was cruelly stolen from her. It was the amalgam of emotions, sadness and anger, that helped him keep going.

Nicola’s thoughts immediately turned to Smith but she quickly dismissed any idea that he might be involved in Carla’s death. He was neither the type nor did she feel there was any justification, if ever one could justify killing. Her next thoughts turned to Bill Rodgers and there they lingered for longer than she liked.

The morning light suffused the room in colour. The sun collected the pattern from the upper-level stained-glass windows before delicately smudging it against the white wall. This natural phenomenon had the ability to change the mood of the room and as a designer of living space he found it stunning.

Craufurd Gaskell watched the traffic pass along Lord Street, two steady streams until the traffic lights brought a halt to the flow. From his vantage point he could observe the Atkinson Gallery Clock in one direction and the Cenotaph in the other. He was spoiled. The trees lining either side were freshly leaved and vivid green. As he saw their delicate sway he thought of Carla and the officer’s words in delivering his statement about three murders within his town. It looked the epitome of gentleness from this perspective, not the bosom of evil. Yes, it was now classed as part of Merseyside, but Southport had always enjoyed its own personal identity, a seaside town even though the sea was a stranger. It represented more retirement than amusement. The summer months were witness to its fair share of holiday makers but its neighbour Blackpool accommodated the majority.

Turning back to the room, he stared at the rug spread across the grey painted floorboards. He could see her. He closed his eyes in remembrance, recalling the moment he had spotted her sitting outside, opposite the apartment, looking forlorn and yet defiant. He had watched her for some time, not in a voyeuristic way; it was more fatherly, if anything. More like a guardian angel on high. Then he had seen the first spots of rain on the windows. He had gone down and brought her in just as the rain started to flush the street and pour from the protective glass canopies like miniature cascades.

On entering his apartment, she had demanded a drink before throwing cushions onto the floor and spreading herself on the rug, singing along to the song that was playing. He recalled that too as if it were yesterday – White Flag by Dido. He had laughed as she flicked her glass with her finger nail in time to the sound of the ringing triangle. She had then changed the lyric to ‘I will surrender’ before holding the glass for a refill, and looking even more upset until it was poured. He recalled that her hair was crunched in a clip. He had watched her hand move to release it. Her hair had fallen to her shoulders and she had flicked her head before unbuttoning her shirt. He opened his eyes quickly. The thought brought a cocktail of excitement, sadness and nausea. His mobile rang.

Bending to retrieve it from the table he glanced at the screen and immediately dropped the phone. Carla’s image, taken on that same evening, a picture he was not proud of taking, showed as it continued to ring. A huge flush of panic ran through him. It was as if the phone had been electrified and the shock had brought this surge of guilt. It stopped ringing.

Within minutes, Carlos Briggs received a similar call. He too looked at the screen before moving it away slightly to get a clearer perspective. He emitted a scream that caused all in the salon to stare. It showed the photograph that always appeared when Carla rang – the two of them laughing.

‘Are you okay, love?’ a woman waiting for her nails to be done asked. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’

Nicola moved from behind the workstation and immediately approached him, dragging the protective mask from her face. Carlos quickly turned the ringing phone towards her. On the illuminated