Read Online Fifty Two Weeks of Murder by Owen Nichols - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Owen Nichols
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evidence. Her work done, she stepped back and appraised her notes, chewing the tip of the marker absently. Finally satisfied, she locked the door behind her and made her way to bed, easing herself under the sheets with a satisfied purr. Within seconds she was asleep.
A few hours later, Anders’ phone rang, crashing through her sleep. Snapping instantly awake, she grabbed the device before it could wake Aaron and Cassie.
“Anders,” she said, sleep making her voice groggy. Mal’s dulcet Welsh tones came from the speaker.
“Get to Smith’s Antiques opposite the Natural History Museum. We have our first entry into Buckland’s competition.”
Chapter 8
Throwing on a pair of jeans over her shorts, Anders moved swiftly through the flat to the kitchen. She quietly set up breakfast and left a note on the fridge before grabbing her jacket and sneakers and running down the steps of the apartment building to the basement where her car was parked. Slipping on her sneakers as she ran, she hopped into an old Ford pick-up truck and tapped in the address Mal had given her into a small sat nav tucked away in the glove box. With scant regard to the British Highway Code, Anders sped from the basement and skidded onto the street, covering the distance to the crime scene in half the time that the sat nav predicted.
As she approached Smith’s Antiques, the roads narrowed. Store fronts lined the streets, selling London tourist paraphernalia or dinosaurs and other items of interest that anyone coming from the Natural History Museum might fancy. Most shops sold cheap tat, but there was the odd gem hidden among the back streets where only those who knew what they were after went. Smith’s Antiques was one such gem. A small shop sandwiched between two large houses, they seemed to creak inwards, shrinking the shop yet further. The sign was old and muted, the window’s dark and musty, but the shop was filled with rare finds that would sell for many thousands at auction. The whole street was filled with a flashing red and blue light as stationary patrol cars idled close by, yellow police tape strung across the road.
Anders parked near the tape and walked to the closest uniformed officer, holding out her warrant card for him to see. The three silver downturned stripes on his epaulettes showed the officer to be a Sergeant. Had she been in uniform, her insignia would have shown a circle of oak leaves with crossed tipstaffs in the centre, a call back to the fourteenth century when arrest warrants were carried in the hollow tips. It was also handy for clubbing and led to the distinctive police batons. The sergeant looked young and was visibly shaken by what he had seen, blinking rapidly as he leaned forward to look at her card. He frowned as he saw her rank and stood to attention, his training overriding his shock.
“Report, Sergeant,” she said and he gulped at the recall, wiping sweat from his shaved head with a damp tissue.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “An alert was posted an hour ago. Neighbours rang us when they saw blood pouring from under the doorway. They banged on the door to see if anyone needed help, but there was no reply.” Anders looked around the street and saw curtains twitch in a few windows. The locals were clearly enjoying the show, she mused, before turning her attention back to the Sergeant.
“I entered the premises by jimmying the lock and found…well…it looked like something from that website so I called it in. Been here waiting for you guys. No one but your boss has been in or out since I saw…” Anders gave him one of her dazzling smiles and thanked him for his work, giving him a comforting pat on his arm. She told him to get the rest of the uniformed officers and start knocking on doors and taking statements.
“Start with that one,” she said and pointed to where she had seen a shadow through the curtains as a bored housewife watched the
A few hours later, Anders’ phone rang, crashing through her sleep. Snapping instantly awake, she grabbed the device before it could wake Aaron and Cassie.
“Anders,” she said, sleep making her voice groggy. Mal’s dulcet Welsh tones came from the speaker.
“Get to Smith’s Antiques opposite the Natural History Museum. We have our first entry into Buckland’s competition.”
Chapter 8
Throwing on a pair of jeans over her shorts, Anders moved swiftly through the flat to the kitchen. She quietly set up breakfast and left a note on the fridge before grabbing her jacket and sneakers and running down the steps of the apartment building to the basement where her car was parked. Slipping on her sneakers as she ran, she hopped into an old Ford pick-up truck and tapped in the address Mal had given her into a small sat nav tucked away in the glove box. With scant regard to the British Highway Code, Anders sped from the basement and skidded onto the street, covering the distance to the crime scene in half the time that the sat nav predicted.
As she approached Smith’s Antiques, the roads narrowed. Store fronts lined the streets, selling London tourist paraphernalia or dinosaurs and other items of interest that anyone coming from the Natural History Museum might fancy. Most shops sold cheap tat, but there was the odd gem hidden among the back streets where only those who knew what they were after went. Smith’s Antiques was one such gem. A small shop sandwiched between two large houses, they seemed to creak inwards, shrinking the shop yet further. The sign was old and muted, the window’s dark and musty, but the shop was filled with rare finds that would sell for many thousands at auction. The whole street was filled with a flashing red and blue light as stationary patrol cars idled close by, yellow police tape strung across the road.
Anders parked near the tape and walked to the closest uniformed officer, holding out her warrant card for him to see. The three silver downturned stripes on his epaulettes showed the officer to be a Sergeant. Had she been in uniform, her insignia would have shown a circle of oak leaves with crossed tipstaffs in the centre, a call back to the fourteenth century when arrest warrants were carried in the hollow tips. It was also handy for clubbing and led to the distinctive police batons. The sergeant looked young and was visibly shaken by what he had seen, blinking rapidly as he leaned forward to look at her card. He frowned as he saw her rank and stood to attention, his training overriding his shock.
“Report, Sergeant,” she said and he gulped at the recall, wiping sweat from his shaved head with a damp tissue.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “An alert was posted an hour ago. Neighbours rang us when they saw blood pouring from under the doorway. They banged on the door to see if anyone needed help, but there was no reply.” Anders looked around the street and saw curtains twitch in a few windows. The locals were clearly enjoying the show, she mused, before turning her attention back to the Sergeant.
“I entered the premises by jimmying the lock and found…well…it looked like something from that website so I called it in. Been here waiting for you guys. No one but your boss has been in or out since I saw…” Anders gave him one of her dazzling smiles and thanked him for his work, giving him a comforting pat on his arm. She told him to get the rest of the uniformed officers and start knocking on doors and taking statements.
“Start with that one,” she said and pointed to where she had seen a shadow through the curtains as a bored housewife watched the
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