Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2), Malcolm Hollingdrake [best e reader for android .TXT] 📗

a slight chill in the air. Possibly a light frost would coat grassy areas in hidden hollows, but in general, the hour was acceptable. However, the warmth of, and the inviting smell from the bedsheets, that recent nest of security, still seemed the better option.

Shift your body, Wicca, you lazy arsed good-for-nothing, and get into your running gear … now! The instruction, inaudible to the real world, was as clear as the alarm call that had shocked her into consciousness but a few moments before. She was ready to accept the start of her day.

It had been said by many that she was a bit of a machine when it came to the art of physical exercise. Her body was fine toned, sinewy like a bowstring pulled taut. There was no fat on her, only muscle. Her movements exhibited a general aura of health, as seen in her face and eyes. The fact they were so visibly different distracted the onlooker from staring for too long. One was almost black, the other was the most vivid of blue, like that of a robin’s egg. This made for a disconcerting contrast.

To place a finger on her wrist and read her resting heart rate would verify the fact that here was a woman in peak physical condition. She strapped on the heart monitor just below her sports bra and checked it against her watch. Moving to the kitchen, she drank a small amount of water. She knew the route she would take. They were planned by the days of the week. The diary chart showed her run the previous Tuesday, along with the weather and her time. There was often an expletive-filled note at the end of every entry: Bugger the wind! Poxy rain!

Running down Bank Brow was particularly slow as her cold muscles made a brief but angry protest. Once into her stride and on the level, she began to find her pace.

The western sky was still deep navy, smudging and blending invisibly with the horizon, beyond his ability to comprehend it as a visual reference. The sky, to the east, by contrast, high above the flat, sandy sea grass broke into ultramarine and orange; the occasional cut, sliced blood red. The breeze was a whisper. Mist hung in the dip to the side of the road, a grey, cottony veil stretching towards Southport’s Pier in one direction and the man-made mounds in the other. The vapour seemed languorous and settled, wanting to remain and defend those artificial barricades. That would be false hope. The advent of the sun would bring warmth, to rip and slough the grey mist’s skin from hollows, cracks and crevices. Only night’s calling card of heavy dew on a salt-laden land would be left. This daily act of natural destruction – nature’s creative hand – would go largely unnoticed.

The sea at Southport was some distance from the coastal road, leaving acres of flat, grey-green sand patched with a camouflage of coastal flora and fauna. It was a bird watcher’s paradise and for the next hour it was Trevor’s – alone and unseen.

Unzipping the box, Trevor removed the drone, unfolded the legs methodically as he always did before checking each rotor was free. There were eight blades in all, two to each leg. To him, it always looked like a crouching dog. After slotting in the battery, he pressed the button on the belly of the craft – once, twice before the five LED lights flashed in turn. The machine twitched, energised and resurrected. The control pad was connected to a small iPad and with the starting of the app, it synchronised the two. This part of the process he liked. It was clean and ordered. There was no rushing or fuss. It was clinical and effortless; in some ways professional.

At this stage, the drone was learning where it was on the earth, calibrating its compass and preparing for flight. When it was ready it would announce the fact to Trevor that ‘the home point had been updated’ clearly and precisely. The drone was now ready. Checking a full 360 degrees he ensured the area was safe to fly and that he was alone amidst a huge expanse of flat nothingness. He was ready for the drone to take to the air for the first time that morning. As it lifted, the whine of the rotors chopped the cool air, the new noise flushing a flock of gulls from an area closer to the distant water, to take flight as if in competition.

The small white box printed with a coronet sat on the table, the lid open revealing the contents. The blades, individually wrapped in transparent bags, held a dull sheen but an extremely sharp edge. I carefully brought one out and held it up to catch the light, the curved edge facing uppermost. Sliding it from the packet I inserted the blade into the craft knife handle. I held the old car mat and lowered the blade to meet the edge. One slow pull down saw the carpet begin to separate. I sliced each tough strand, the warp and the weft surrendering to my touch, separating in one clean, slicing motion. The carpet fell in two pieces to the floor and I quickly changed the blade.

I had stuck the large watermelon onto the section of broom handle which I then trapped in the vice. It looked like a head on a pole – I had given it eyes, ears and a mouth using black felt pen. Holding the new blade inches away from the right ear, I plunged it in as deep as possible before dragging it forward, slicing a clean gash in the fruit’s flesh. Juice dribbled from the cut. In the satisfaction of the moment, I lowered my head and ran my tongue along the oozing gash.

Chapter 2

The trek along the canal from Appley Bridge to Parbold was one of Skeeter’s favourite runs. The River Douglas meandered lazily to