Read Online Scream: A DCI Mark Lapslie Investigation by Nigel McCrery - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nigel McCrery
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Premier Inn while she was driving.
She kept going alongside the sea wall for a while, then got bored and turned around, taking a different route back and passing a surprisingly modernistic building looking out onto the Thames Estuary that appeared to have been designed to mimic the bridge of some ocean-going liner, with a curved central portion and wings to either side. In contrast to the Lobster Smack, which looked Victorian, this place was built in a style reminiscent of the 1930s. Again, it was a stark white against the leaden sky. White seemed to be a favoured colour around Canvey Island. Perhaps all the other colours kept getting used up by the time the deliveries got this far. Signs attached to the central drum-shaped portion identified it as a restaurant and bistro, and Emma made a note to check it out. Chances were, this close to the Thames fishing grounds, she might be able to get a decent seafood linguine. Well, seafood at least. Linguine, like coloured paint, might not have got this far.
Finally, she found Canvey Island Police Station. It was a two-storey red-brick building – thankfully, not whitewashed – although it did have white-framed windows. Two police cars and what looked like several cars belonging to the staff were parked outside the front. Security appeared to Emma Bradbury to be non-existent. She was used to sealed-off parking areas around the back of the nick, accessible only with a security code or a swipe card. This was almost civilised.
She parked up and looked around. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying out like abandoned babies, their eyes scanning for rubbishbins and discarded chip packets. She could swear that their eyes tracked the back of her neck as she walked towards the front door of the police station.
‘DS Bradbury to see Sergeant Murrell,’ she said, flashing her warrant card. The youth on the front desk – Police Community Support Officer, rather than a ‘
real
’ police constable – visibly gulped, tried not to look at her chest and said, ‘Certainly, ma’am. Would you like to come inside?’ He buzzed her in through the door – the only sign of security that she’d noticed so far – and led her down a short corridor to a small office.
Sergeant Murrell was scanning what looked, upside down, like staff reports. He turned the top one over and stood up as she entered.
‘DS Bradbury. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’
‘Please, call me Emma,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the preliminary results of the autopsy. We’ve confirmed that it’s a murder, so I need to set up an incident room and get going on the investigation. How many staff can you spare?’
‘And I’m Keith. I’ve got five full-time PCs and nine PCSOs,’ he replied, ‘and although they’re not exactly overworked, they’re not sitting around with their thumbs up their arses either. We don’t get a lot of murders here, but there’s a fair amount of antisocial behaviour and domestics. Something about being at the far edge of the country brings out an almost Scandinavian moroseness in people, I find. I can probably spring a PC and two PCSOs for a while – anything else would compromise the visible patrolling that we like to do here.’
She debated briefly whether to push for another PC, but she didn’t want to alienate Murrell – not just yet, anyway. She nodded. ‘That’ll be fine for now. Where can I set up an incident room?’
‘We’ve got a crew room, where the team can grab a cup oftea and read the paper during their breaks. If necessary, we can turn it into an incident room.’
‘Again, it’ll have to do. Apologise to your team for me for taking their crew room away.’
‘Don’t worry – there’s a café across the road.’ He paused. ‘Talking of which, can I get you a coffee?’
‘Please. Black, no sugar.’
‘Chris,’ he said, turning to the PCSO in the doorway who had been trying to steal glances down her T-shirt; ‘A Whoopie Goldberg for the DS, please. And a Julie
She kept going alongside the sea wall for a while, then got bored and turned around, taking a different route back and passing a surprisingly modernistic building looking out onto the Thames Estuary that appeared to have been designed to mimic the bridge of some ocean-going liner, with a curved central portion and wings to either side. In contrast to the Lobster Smack, which looked Victorian, this place was built in a style reminiscent of the 1930s. Again, it was a stark white against the leaden sky. White seemed to be a favoured colour around Canvey Island. Perhaps all the other colours kept getting used up by the time the deliveries got this far. Signs attached to the central drum-shaped portion identified it as a restaurant and bistro, and Emma made a note to check it out. Chances were, this close to the Thames fishing grounds, she might be able to get a decent seafood linguine. Well, seafood at least. Linguine, like coloured paint, might not have got this far.
Finally, she found Canvey Island Police Station. It was a two-storey red-brick building – thankfully, not whitewashed – although it did have white-framed windows. Two police cars and what looked like several cars belonging to the staff were parked outside the front. Security appeared to Emma Bradbury to be non-existent. She was used to sealed-off parking areas around the back of the nick, accessible only with a security code or a swipe card. This was almost civilised.
She parked up and looked around. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying out like abandoned babies, their eyes scanning for rubbishbins and discarded chip packets. She could swear that their eyes tracked the back of her neck as she walked towards the front door of the police station.
‘DS Bradbury to see Sergeant Murrell,’ she said, flashing her warrant card. The youth on the front desk – Police Community Support Officer, rather than a ‘
real
’ police constable – visibly gulped, tried not to look at her chest and said, ‘Certainly, ma’am. Would you like to come inside?’ He buzzed her in through the door – the only sign of security that she’d noticed so far – and led her down a short corridor to a small office.
Sergeant Murrell was scanning what looked, upside down, like staff reports. He turned the top one over and stood up as she entered.
‘DS Bradbury. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’
‘Please, call me Emma,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the preliminary results of the autopsy. We’ve confirmed that it’s a murder, so I need to set up an incident room and get going on the investigation. How many staff can you spare?’
‘And I’m Keith. I’ve got five full-time PCs and nine PCSOs,’ he replied, ‘and although they’re not exactly overworked, they’re not sitting around with their thumbs up their arses either. We don’t get a lot of murders here, but there’s a fair amount of antisocial behaviour and domestics. Something about being at the far edge of the country brings out an almost Scandinavian moroseness in people, I find. I can probably spring a PC and two PCSOs for a while – anything else would compromise the visible patrolling that we like to do here.’
She debated briefly whether to push for another PC, but she didn’t want to alienate Murrell – not just yet, anyway. She nodded. ‘That’ll be fine for now. Where can I set up an incident room?’
‘We’ve got a crew room, where the team can grab a cup oftea and read the paper during their breaks. If necessary, we can turn it into an incident room.’
‘Again, it’ll have to do. Apologise to your team for me for taking their crew room away.’
‘Don’t worry – there’s a café across the road.’ He paused. ‘Talking of which, can I get you a coffee?’
‘Please. Black, no sugar.’
‘Chris,’ he said, turning to the PCSO in the doorway who had been trying to steal glances down her T-shirt; ‘A Whoopie Goldberg for the DS, please. And a Julie
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