Read Online Concrete Evidence by Conrad Jones - Free Book Online Page B

allow him to. He had been pulled off the frontline years ago and was coasting towards his retirement taking statements for insurance companies following burglaries or car thefts. He hadn’t had a partner for twelve months. Nowadays all he needed was a pen and a notepad. After just a few strides, his breath was coming in rasping bursts. His joints and connective tissues were straining under the unaccustomed pressure.  
                  The Webb woman was determined to enter her daughter’s apartment and the chances were that, she would make it to the back door before he did. He heard the engine of her vehicle racing in low gear. It accelerated quickly putting distance between them. It roared out of view behind the apartment block, the tyres screeched as she turned the corner into the rear car park. He heard the gravel crunch beneath the wheels as it skidded to a halt. She was already at the rear of the flat. Bowers reached the end of the front path and turned the corner at full pelt. His feet slipped from beneath him and he hit the floor hard, taking his full weight on his elbows. Gravel ripped his uniform and tore the skin, friction burned his flesh. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs. “I’m too old for this shit,” he moaned.
                  Sirens wailed in the distance. He took a moment to compose himself and to get his breath back. The thought of being on the receiving end of a ticking off from his superiors was top of mind. All he had to do was keep an empty apartment secure. He couldn’t be outwitted by an aging housewife. The thought spurred him on. He would be the laughing stock of the station if his orders were thwarted by a middle-aged woman. He pushed himself to his hands and knees like a sprinter in the blocks and then ran towards the rear. As he reached the next corner, he heard the Ford stop, the door opening and then her footsteps on the gravel. He slowed as he turned right, his bruises reminding him of the result of losing his footing again.
    His momentum carried him onto the path and straight into a blue wheelie-bin. He tumbled head over heels, his weight knocking the bin sideways, scattering bottles and cans across the car park. He fell, palms splayed and knees grazed onto the concrete. “For fuck’s sake!” he hissed as he scrambled to his feet. He kicked the wheelie-bin in anger and shouted after the woman. “Mrs Webb!” 
    The rear gardens were separated by high Waney Lap panels and concrete posts. A series of wooden gates gave access to each ground floor plot. Jackie Webb had secured her gate with a mortice lock that could be opened from either side, offering her visitors the option to enter from the rear providing they had a key. 
                  “Mrs Webb,” he shouted breathlessly. She was fumbling with a set of keys, trying to open the gate. She looked up and saw him thundering around the corner towards her. “Mrs Webb!” he called again.
    She dropped the keys and scrambled on the floor to pick them up. He was fifty yards from her. She looked panicked as she sorted through the bunch. There were three keys that could fit a mortice. Her fingers trembled as she slipped the first into the lock, twisting it until it grated against metal. She tried twisting it further but it wouldn’t budge. He was forty yards away, his mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear the words. Jackie was inside and she was hurt. She knew that she was in terrible danger, hurt, frightened and alone. Her instincts told her that something terrible had happened. The second key rattled against the lock and then slid in. It turned a quarter then stopped. The policeman was closing the gap quickly. She picked the third one from the bunch and pushed it home, twisting it with sweaty hands, the lock clicked open.
    “Mrs Webb!”
    Twenty yards. His voice made her actions more urgent. She turned the handle and pushed open the gate, running through it as fast as she could. She