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

town. Turning down Lord Street, there was still a red blush to part of the western sky; there were still gulls too, their nocturnal flight aided by the town’s lights. It amazed him how the birds’ moving shadows could startle when flying within the coloured spotlights, often placed to illuminate the various buildings. Southport had a beauty of its own, even though the residents were experiencing the recent, dark times. He thought of his mother who still checked to see if he had a clean handkerchief when he went out. ‘You’re still my little boy’, she would always say, closely followed by, ‘Do you have your key?’ Although living at home had its drawbacks, it also had its advantages. He did very little, his food was bought and prepared, his washing and ironing done and even his bed made. To many he was spoiled but to Carlos he was cherished.

The pub stood out from the rest of the buildings in the row. Housed in a detached Victorian stone building, bedecked with central tower crowned with wrought iron, it had a certain regal presence. The blue surrounding iron and glass veranda that faced two sides was welcoming. The flower baskets hanging from the intricate iron work, trailing variegated ivy, were silhouetted against the pub’s lights, making them look larger than life. Some seating was optimistically placed outside, and the wall heaters had attracted smokers and the hardy who congregated in groups.

Carlos paused, contemplating the significance of his chance conversation with Lloyd. It seemed an age since he had been drawn to someone after such a brief encounter. He had experienced carefree flings, spontaneous couplings he had called them, in a way to justify the feeling of disgust that often followed. He had promised himself, after a conversation with Carla, that those liaisons were to be a thing of the past. He promised her that he would respect himself more and from that moment he had. He recalled her words: ‘You’re worth more than that. Look after you. Look after number one as no bugger else will!’ Her advice seemed to suggest that this was the guidance she had forced upon herself. She had faced toils and tribulations so often, brought about by Smith’s frequent dalliances and disloyalty. These salutary experiences had changed her life. He felt himself growing maudlin. Crossing the road, he entered the building and directly approached the bar. The warmth, the music and the chatter were heady.

Campari and soda in a tall glass always looked inviting, and as the slice of orange floated to the surface to mix with the crushed ice, he stirred his drink. Lifting it up to the light he admired the colour, it was a rich and deep red. It was part of the drink’s attraction, that and its bitter, herbal taste. He felt as though it cleansed his palate but that brought the words ‘pretentious pomposity’ to mind, and he giggled. When he had first ordered one in her company, Carla had made that comment to him. The words had stayed with him. Turning, he scanned the room before slipping the straw between his lips again. His eyes searched amongst the seated customers for Lloyd. On a table by the last window was the man for whom he searched. He smiled before waggling his fingers in recognition and moved over negotiating a number of customers and tables.

Lloyd stood and held out his hand. ‘I didn’t think you’d come, Carlos, or do you prefer Brian?’

‘Carlos, I’d prefer. It brings a great friend and mentor to mind.’ He sat looking at the dregs within his new found friend’s glass. ‘Another?’

‘No, I need food. You okay with that?’

Carlos sipped from his straw and nodded as a menu was placed in front of him.

The pistol grip glass cutter followed the pattern clearly visible through the blue-green glass. April’s steady hand pushed the wheel along a curved route drawn on the paper beneath the glass positioned on the light box. The fine cutting edge made a satisfying crunch as it scored the glass surface whilst leaving a light snail trail of fine oil in its wake. The distinctive sound told her that the pressure applied was accurate. On reaching the end she lifted the glass, rotating the cutter to bring the brass screw fitting on the chamber that held the cutting oil. She held it underneath before tapping it gently along the scored line. Obediently the glass broke perfectly. There was always something reassuring when a complex series of curving cut lines appeared from the full glass sheet. She had been taught well. Placing it onto the cartoon, the drawn black lined pattern of the design for the leaded window, she appreciated the richness of the colours she had chosen. She would cut one more before opening the wine. Checking her watch, her mind turned to Michael. He would just be getting to grips with the files she had left him.

Whether it was through excitement or a touch of nerves, Carlos did not finish his scampi and chips. He mauled his meal like a cat with a mouse. The conversation flowed; it was both easy and relaxed, as if they had known each other for longer. Within the matter of an hour, he had told most of his life story. There were, however, gaps deliberately left. Carla was never alluded to, even though at one point the conversation turned to discuss the three recent murders. It was Lloyd who had joked, somewhat tongue in cheek, that you waited years for a juicy murder to happen in your town and then three come along together. It had fallen flat, and that was the only time there was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. However, on draining his third Campari soda, Carlos relaxed, enjoying the mood. The barriers began to be withdrawn and the mutual laughter was restored.

Looking out of the window, they saw that far more people had congregated around the tables and heaters. It