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

you to see it fly one of these days. It’s as easy to operate as that one of yours. Don’t forget to try the camera settings I’ve suggested, you just never know.’

Steve closed the lid of the case and they both moved to the door.

‘Thank you. As my mother always used to say a promise is really a debt. That was so kind of you to remember me. It was very informative and enjoyable. Anytime you’re passing you’d be most welcome. I don’t get many visitors so your surprise call has made my week, thank you.’ He waved and turned to go back inside. As he closed the door, a smile crossed his lips.

Skeeter rang April. ‘Good plan of yours to have a social chat with Trevor rather than come in with the cavalry all guns blazing. Neither of us thinks he’s our man. Just in the wrong place and the wrong time – twice!’

Carlos waved as he left the salon for lunch. It was just after one thirty, later than usual. Nicola watched him leave. He seemed such a sad man. Gone was the bounce in his step he had always shown when Carla was around. However, she knew it would return – time would heal the wound.

The Atkinson Gallery was busy, and a party of school children loitered around the shop, their sharp, excited voices echoing in the cavernous void. An old red car was parked further into the building and he read posters linking it to some speed record held way back in time. He had never been interested in cars, even as a child, and this one was no exception. As a matter of curiosity, he did walk around it the once. He could smell the oil, obviously leaking from the old motor. On looking beneath, he saw the metal catch tray and the small puddle of shiny black. Turning to his right he entered the café. It would be his usual order: a one-shot latte and a toasted teacake with extra butter.

The waitress recognised him immediately and she gave a warm, welcoming wave. ‘Where you sitting today, Brian? I’ll bring them over. I know you like your coffee piping hot. You’re looking a bit better.’ Her smile was immediate but it was tinged with sadness.

Carlos checked the empty seats before choosing a table by the far wall. He pointed.

‘That’s number eight. You should know them by now. Won’t be a tick.’

As he sat, two more people entered. The room, once a large part of the building’s grand entrance, had recently been divided into more functional spaces. The height of the ceilings had been maintained and the large windows reflected the building’s grandeur. The heating pipes and the electrical conduit had been left exposed, giving the space a more industrial yet modern feel. There was always a buzz about the place, what with the theatre, the library, the art gallery and museum situated on the same site. It was all things to the citizens and visitors to the town, particularly on wet and windy days.

He watched as the customers both paused on entry, as if searching for someone. Initially Carlos thought they were together, but he was wrong. The man, in his late twenties, went to the counter and an elderly woman had, after a moment of searching, spotted her companion. She waved before moving towards their table. The man, now at the counter, turned and looked directly at Carlos before collecting his drink. He waited for his change and then moved to sit at the next table, number seven. He nodded as he sat. He said nothing but stirred his coffee. Within a minute the waitress brought Carlos his order, the butter melting and forming golden pools on the plate.

‘Brought you extra napkins too, Brian.’ She briefly placed a hand on his shoulder and left.

‘Preferential treatment, I see. You must be a regular, or is she a friend?’ The man’s face remained focused on the spoon as he slowly rotated it in the cup.

‘I call in most days when I can. This is where I usually get butter down my shirt.’ He raised his eyebrows as he brought up the napkin and tucked it beneath his chin. ‘Not very elegant but effective. Come here often did you ask? As I said, yes, but I’ve been a bit busy lately as we’re—’ He was going to say a member of staff down but stopped himself.

‘She a friend?’

‘No, she does most days and we’ve got to know each other.’ Brian felt himself blush a little but could not understand why. ‘Visiting Southport?’

‘No, I live here.’ He looked up for the first time. ‘Well, can you believe, I live with my mother. I’m between apartments at present, relationship trouble, I’m afraid. I’m in car sales. Popped in to look at the beauty in the entrance. You probably know it belonged to Sir Henry Segrave.’

Carlos, with a mouth full of toasted teacake, shook his head. He, too, still lived at home. It seemed to be the malaise of his generation. What with job insecurity, house prices and, he had to admit, his inability to save. As Carla said, life is for living, and that meant spending and having a bloody good time.

‘It’s a Sunbeam Tiger and he drove that 152.33 miles per hour along the sands here. You have to admire his bravery. Ninety-four years ago, that is, according to the posters. Imagine travelling at that speed on sand with tyres like that. You’re probably here for the same reason.’

Carlos could sense the enthusiasm as he spoke but his ears pricked up on hearing the words ‘relationship’ and ‘trouble’.

‘No, just lunch. You know all of the figures and fine details. Who’d remember the point three-three in the story after so long?

‘Been fascinated since I was a kid. My father was into design so cars like this featured heavily in my childhood. My brother was a designer at Jaguar too. Not cars, but the interiors. The subtle bits