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

Skeeter shook her head. ‘No, just need some help.’

‘Help? Come to the wrong address there then love. Your eye looks sore. Can’t help himself let alone others. Look at the state of the garden. Wasn’t always like this. When his mother was alive it was beautiful, best on the road. She was so precise and when she passed away her son just let it go to this. No concern for anyone else.’

Skeeter knew from the report that he had not worked for some time. He had referred to his depression when first interviewed, detailing the trauma stemming from his mother’s death. He had stopped working at Jaguar, Speke around the same time. She was also aware there was now no car registered to this address.

‘My name’s Skeeter. I used to work with him. And you?’

‘Joan, love. Pleased to meet you. Shall I tell him you called?’

‘No, I’ll pop back. Could you give me a ring when he returns? I’d love to surprise Trevor if I can, sooner rather than later.’ She jotted down her number and passed it over the fence.

‘I’ll need my specs. I’ll do that, love.’

‘Surprise remember, Joan, love.’ She just had to add the word ‘love’.

‘You’d think working at Jaguar he’d have a car. We get discount.’

‘Bicycle, one of those electric ones. Goes everywhere on it laden to the gunwales some days with bits and bobs.’

Simon Taylor stood back from the estate car as Craufurd opened the tailgate. The rear seats had been folded flat. A large object rested beneath a tartan rug. Flicking back the corner, Craufurd exposed the high gloss abstract art work. He immediately raised his eyes to look directly at Taylor.

‘Can we prop it against the back?’

The painting was removed and placed so the light from the gaps running along the edge of the building flooded onto it. Once positioned, Craufurd moved to stand at Taylor’s side.

‘I’ve been redesigning some offices and this was in their boardroom. The colours are just not appropriate for what they had specified and so when the new work was installed, I bought it. It was just too good for the skip!’

‘So why the intrigue – “I’ll bring it and meet you.”’ His voice mimicked Craufurd’s. ‘We usually deal on the net. If the price is right you know I’d have bought it.’

‘I needed a word, face to face.’

Taylor turned away from the picture.

‘Have the police paid you any visits regarding Carla Sharpe and the apartment?’

A car passed and they both moved to the side.

‘Yes, they were curious about my friendship with Carla and Smith but they were also asking about Jennings. I’d met them, of course, at the parties. I told them, too, how I first met her. Couldn’t believe it when I read it was murder. Such a bloody waste.’ Pausing, he moved and focused on the art work, momentarily allowing his finger to rub the high gloss sheen. It was cold to the touch. ‘Three now I believe, and all three came to your apartment – well, technically, it was their apartment if we’re being pedantic. You could have asked that on the phone.’

Craufurd moved closer. ‘That’s true, Simon, very true but then …’

Skeeter had just turned approaching Copy Lane, when her phone rang.

‘Is that you Skeeter? It’s me.’

‘Joan, love?’ Skeeter answered.

‘Yes! Joan, love. He’s back. I’ve not said anything. He’s put his bicycle down the side of the house and into the garage at the back.’

Skeeter wasted no time. From her present position it took her only fifteen minutes to return.

The same curtain twitched, identical to the circumstances of her first visit, but then a small hand appeared and Joan raised a thumb as if signalling all was well. Skeeter chuckled to herself as she knocked on the door. It was then she sensed she was being watched by someone close. Leaning to look back at the neighbour’s window she saw the curtain was no longer strained to the side. It was on turning back she saw him standing some way from the front window, the gap in the net curtains slightly parted. Skeeter stared back before producing her ID and slapping it against the window. The figure moved forward and looked. Nodding his head, he immediately vanished from view. Seconds later, the door opened. A smell of bacon escaped and took refuge in her nostrils making her mouth water.

‘Trevor Thomas? That’s a welcome aroma. Not had a bacon butty for quite some time.’

The non-threatening interaction brought a smile. ‘Is it about my video? You still have my micro SD and they’re not cheap.’

From her pocket she took a plastic forensic bag. His name and the date received were clearly marked. ‘Long overdue, sorry. May I have a minute of your time?’

Trevor moved to one side directing her to the door to the left of the hallway. It was neither conventional nor was it what she expected. The walls were organised with aerial images, many seemingly out of focus but still fascinating. She instantly recognised the Gormley figures situated along the coast, many submerged at various depths. Then there was an aerial picture of the lighthouse at Fort Perch Rock, New Brighton. From the ceiling hung models of aircraft, each meticulously painted. They encapsulated a history of aviation and she immediately thought of Tony and his paper dart.

Trevor pulled a chair from behind a desk. She realised it was where he had been when she knocked. He invited her to sit. He looked directly at her. It was a rare occurrence when someone did not find eye to eye contact uncomfortable.

‘How may I assist you on this occasion?’ There was no hint of an accent in his voice, certainly there was no Scouse lurking within the vowels. ‘Strange affair, that. I haven’t returned to that area with my drone.’ He pointed to the machine on the desk.

‘To be honest, Mr Thomas, I’m not surprised. No, it’s not really to do with that, just taking the opportunity to return your property.