Catch as Catch Can (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 1), Malcolm Hollingdrake [best large ereader .TXT] 📗

‘Very MI6, ma’am.’ Lucy started humming the Bond tune and giggled.

April said nothing but continued to study Lucy before raising an eyebrow. Lucy laughed again. ‘Very Roger Moore if I may say so.’

‘It’s a case of meeting and collecting. You don’t say much to them and they don’t say much to you. It’s a hidden transaction. Don’t worry, you’ll be prepped.’

‘When you say you? You mean me?’ Lucy’s facial expression was one of shock. ‘Me?’

‘It’s right up your street.’

‘Right.’ Lucy raised her eyebrows. And which street might that be, she thought as a tingle of nerves filled her stomach.

April walked Tico along the beach. The spring days were beginning to stretch out and their closing was often reflected in stunning sunsets. Tonight was no exception. She stood admiring the distant horizon, now showing deep slashes of red and orange. The sea, a deeper palette of similar leached colours, seemed almost static the further her eyes travelled into the distance. Clouds had grown, thin at first but now more threatening cumulus were dragged into the picture. Sleet had been predicted but rain was definitely forecast. The drone of an aircraft could be heard, carried on the breeze which seemed more cruel, cutting and chill, than it had been earlier. April turned up her collar. She knew it would not be long before the wind would change and blow from the land. She watched the fine-grained sand move in clusters, whipping along the surface, a light whispering accompanying the movement. She breathed deeply. Her thoughts turned to the buried man and she shivered. Tico moved to her side as if he sensed her sudden disquiet.

‘You are special.’ She ran her hand along his arched back. ‘Come on, Tico, home.’ Tico turned and started to run; his motion was pure grace. She looked forward to settling down, working on the stained-glass window whilst listening to some music and then wine – yes, definitely wine.

The cottage was warm. Tico made an immediate dash for his bed in front of the Aga. April made her way into the area she called her studio. The horseshoe nails stood in rows trapping the glass within the lead. She would clean the lead joints, tallow them, tallow being the best flux, and solder them closed. She retrieved a small bronze brush and a stick of tallow – it looked like a candle without the wick. Rubbing the dulled lead joint, she brought a shine. She covered the surface in tallow; a strange aroma came from it, for her, a pleasant smell. After cleaning five or six joints the soldering gun was hot. Testing the heat against the solder; it melted easily. She could now seal the joints. Within the hour the first side was complete.

The queuing traffic moved slowly, more stop than creep. The progression in the early evening dark seemed like a penance. The term rush hour was a total contradiction to what was a twice daily, frustrating experience. Drivers’ patience and concentration were tested whilst travelling at a pace that would not have been unfamiliar in 1890, therefore making a mockery of the term. The stop start motion on a stuffy double-decker bus was nauseating but the last thing Lucy wanted was to get off and walk. She had felt the need to do it before when travelling on public transport as she began to feel the early signs of motion sickness grow. As a child she could never travel far. The yawns, the beads of sweat to her forehead and the clammy warmth she immediately recognised. Walking would be certainly quicker but the inclement weather was against that.

She swept the misted glass window with her hand, bringing together a collection of water droplets that swelled and burst before rolling down the window like snails’ trails. She allowed her gaze to follow the leading droplet until it collided with the rubber window surround. Lifting her gaze, she stared out of the window wishing the traffic would move.

The approach to this junction was always the same. Why the few buildings were left as if on an island, surrounded and awash with a complex road system, she would never know. It seemed irrational, and to her, obvious that a bottleneck had been created; three roads into one was a recipe for chaos. To make matters worse, in heavy rain, the narrow river that was artificially fed beneath the roads would often flood the whole area. That would not be the case today but tonight there was a rugby match at the nearby stadium adding to the normal congestion.

The street lights, fresh and glowing orange, seemed to wash smudged colour on the wet surfaces. She stared at nothing in particular and time seemed to stand still before the bus lurched to a sudden stop throwing everyone forward. A few passengers grumbled, a child began to cry a few seats behind Lucy, adding to the misery. Lucy’s senses suddenly seemed under attack now that her hearing was bombarded. It was at that moment she leaned closer to the glass, trying to allow her warm and sweaty skin to feed from the cool, wet surface. The bus had pulled up abruptly just before the archway of a railway bridge. The train crossing above brought a rumble and a slight vibration. More droplets moved ever faster down the glass. At this point along the road there was no pavement and the bus hugged the stone wall that gave way to a row of stout, Victorian iron railings. Littered amongst the uncut grass along their base was a collection of life’s detritus; ejected over time from waiting and passing cars. Lucy looked down, amazed at the variety of objects. She tried to identify each one in turn but the length of time they had been trapped there had denuded both labelling and colour.

Failing to stifle a yawn, she raised her eyes to scan a much greater area, illuminated in