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

situated on the edge of the pinewoods close to, and part of, Belle View Farm which was owned by Colin and Sue Martin. It had needed a little TLC but she was not afraid of hard graft, and after only a fortnight it was home from home.

Sue Martin had been more than eager to see a friendly face move in, and to have a police officer too was an added bonus. April and Sue had immediately formed a bond; it was clear that they both had a similar understanding of the world. In the first hour of their meeting, they had put most of it to rights.

However, there had been one problem; Tico had not been as warmly welcomed by Sky, the farm’s Border Collie, and for the first few weeks a great deal of barking and raised hackles had been evident. Since then, they seemed to be in a period of truce; neither trusted the other and lines had definitely been drawn.

Back at the cottage now, April wrapped her hands around the mug of hot chocolate before moving to the room she used as a studio. She smoothed the paper positioned on the workbench, the design for a stained-glass window she had promised to make for a former colleague from Yorkshire. She was not happy with it so she decided that she would adjust certain lines when time allowed. Moving away, she made a beeline for her desk. She was on early shift the next day and paperwork beckoned.

Chapter 2

The dock road was quiet of traffic and that was not always how they liked it. More traffic meant more anonymity but it was what it was and this would be their last run. From what they knew, this would be an easy target. It was assumed from the riding style they had seen and the colour of the scooter, that the female rider would neither struggle nor race away. For one thing she would fear damaging the pink paintwork; from the look of the learner plate, the machine could not have been more than a week old. It should be like taking candy from a baby.

Even though the girl must have had a few lessons, she still seemed uncertain in the way she handled the machine. Looking behind was proving a difficult manoeuvre for her and she needed to master using her mirrors. They had watched her now for two mornings and like clockwork, somewhat wobbly and unsure clockwork, she had cautiously travelled the straight main road before always turning right onto Upper William Street. It was decided that it would be there, as she approached the inappropriately named Love Lane, that they would strike.

Chelle saw the scooter’s indicator flash yellow as the rider half-heartedly looked behind, before moving to the centre of the road to turn right. The girl’s nervous inexperience was evident as she tried to avoid putting her feet down while waiting to turn. When a gap appeared in the traffic, she uncertainly opened the throttle – too little, the engine stuttered, too much, a surge of speed, then sudden hard braking. Relieved, she headed along Upper William Street, a featureless piece of tarmac hemmed in by windowless brick buildings that ran along both sides of the street. The noise from her bike was amplified on this inhospitable stretch, there were no pavements and the low railway bridge was further ahead. She preferred a quiet road to busy main roads but this one did make her feel edgy. It was so empty.

Swiftly, Chelle pulled alongside. Her pillion raised his boot giving the girl’s thigh a tap, not hard, just enough to bring about enough instability for her to wobble and then stop. The pillion leaped from Chelle’s bike and grabbed the handlebars facing the now frightened rider. They had misjudged her. A struggle soon developed. She screamed but her helmet muffled and nullified the desperate cry. Chelle, realising things were taking too long, flicked her bike onto its stand whilst keeping the engine running. She removed the ball hammer from her jacket, normally used for smashing bike locks. Swiftly she moved behind the rider who was still intent on wrestling the handlebars from the first assailant. Raising the hammer, she brought it down with all the force she could muster. Initially, she glanced the side of the helmet. The deflecting force guided it to the intended target. She felt it sink into the padded jacket and flesh before striking the rider’s collar bone.

The burning pain shot from her disintegrating clavicle as the hammer’s ball swiftly smashed the bone. She immediately released one side of the handlebars. Within seconds, she felt the second blow crash into the other shoulder and her other arm went limp too. Chelle did not need to raise the hammer again. She could see the girl slide from the seat and slump to the ground. Her fight was over. Within seconds the two bikes were racing down Love Lane. As a final insult they had taken her bag, forcefully tearing it from her damaged shoulder. She could offer no resistance, only tears. It was fifteen minutes before she was found, by which time her assailants and her belongings had long disappeared. It would take a further ten minutes before the police arrived at the scene and that proved to be too late.

The afternoon’s sweep had also been very profitable and as was usual the riders had sung into their helmets: Like taking candy from a baby. They drove off at silly speeds between the lines of stationary and moving cars and often bewildered pedestrians, before rendezvousing some time later with the van in order to disappear. The song was a habit they had acquired over the months as their confidence had grown.

Later, as they sat in Sadiq’s apartment, the panoramic windows offered an unrestricted view of the distant buildings known as Liverpool’s Three Graces, down the Mersey and then to distant hazy refineries almost hidden on the Wirral. This view