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Authors: Shirley Wells
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figure of Adam Smith heading towards the bridge over the canal. It was a common meeting place for drunks, druggies and prostitutes. Smith’s head was turning from left to right, scanning every doorway, and his hands were deep in the pockets of a jacket that offered little resistance to the temperature.
Smith rarely slept and, by the look of him, rarely ate. He’d given up his job as a lorry driver and spent every minute of every day searching for his daughter.
Max wondered what he’d do if he got home to find that Harry or Ben was missing. It was every parent’s nightmare and simply didn’t bear thinking about.
Linda’s last words to him had been, ‘Take good care of my boys, Max.’
He could remember feeling the weight of that responsibility at Linda’s funeral when he’d said a final goodbye to his wife.
His marriage had been over long before then, though. He and Linda had shared the same house, and the same bed, and would probably have stayed together for the sake of the boys, but it had been over. They’d both known it.
He only remembered two things from the funeral. One was the sheer panic of trying to raise two boys on his own. The other had been the rain. It had been relentless as he and his sons had stood beside that sodden, miserable grave, oblivious to the dozens of mourners around them. Undertakers had fussed around with huge, black umbrellas but he and the boys had preferred the rain.
Max pushed the memories away and concentrated on the murder of Lauren Cole.
Motive. He needed to concentrate on motive. Why would anyone want her dead?
Max had an uneasy feeling about it all. Was the person who chose an axe as a murder weapon the same person who enjoyed stringing up cats?
He suddenly slapped the steering wheel.
Percy Jacobs!
Seven years ago, Bill Jacobs had been sentenced to life imprisonment for the vicious rape and murder of a teenager. Jill’s profile had helped to bring about an arrest.
His brother, Percy, had always, despite hard evidence and a confession, protested Bill’s innocence. If anyone bore Jill, or the force in general, a grudge, it was Percy Jacobs. And Max would bet his life that the grudge was weighing even heavier now that Bill had passed away. He’d died in prison two weeks ago.
Percy was a nasty piece of work, too. No better than his brother, he’d been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for rape.
Perhaps it was time to pay him a visit.
Chapter Eight
When Jill arrived at headquarters the following morning, she went straight to the coffee machine. If she’d known Clive White would be standing there, a clipboard under his arm as he took a full plastic cup from the dispenser, she would have given it a miss.
‘Hi, Jill. I wanted to buy you a drink last night, but you’d already left.’
‘I was driving so I didn’t stay long.’
‘No hangover for you then?’
‘Nope. I just need a coffee to warm me up a bit. Why? Are people feeling a bit the worse for wear after last night’s session?’
‘A few are. The boss won’t be pleased.’
He certainly wouldn’t.
‘So what are you doing here, Clive?’
Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but seeing him at every turn was beginning to annoy her.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not working.’ He thrust the clipboard at her. ‘You remember last year I organized the New Year Run? I’m doing it again this year.’
‘Really?’ And now she felt guilty, which was absurd. ‘Good for you.’
But she felt guilty every time she saw him, as if she’d stolen a favourite toy from a child, and that was ludicrous. She should have more confidence in herself. She’d deemed him unfit to continue in his job, and that should be the end of it.
‘Any chance of some sponsorship?’ he asked. ‘I’m raising funds for the hospice, the same as last year.’
‘Yes, of course.’
She took the clipboard from him, signed her name and promised a more than generous donation if he completed the run. She was sure he would. He
Smith rarely slept and, by the look of him, rarely ate. He’d given up his job as a lorry driver and spent every minute of every day searching for his daughter.
Max wondered what he’d do if he got home to find that Harry or Ben was missing. It was every parent’s nightmare and simply didn’t bear thinking about.
Linda’s last words to him had been, ‘Take good care of my boys, Max.’
He could remember feeling the weight of that responsibility at Linda’s funeral when he’d said a final goodbye to his wife.
His marriage had been over long before then, though. He and Linda had shared the same house, and the same bed, and would probably have stayed together for the sake of the boys, but it had been over. They’d both known it.
He only remembered two things from the funeral. One was the sheer panic of trying to raise two boys on his own. The other had been the rain. It had been relentless as he and his sons had stood beside that sodden, miserable grave, oblivious to the dozens of mourners around them. Undertakers had fussed around with huge, black umbrellas but he and the boys had preferred the rain.
Max pushed the memories away and concentrated on the murder of Lauren Cole.
Motive. He needed to concentrate on motive. Why would anyone want her dead?
Max had an uneasy feeling about it all. Was the person who chose an axe as a murder weapon the same person who enjoyed stringing up cats?
He suddenly slapped the steering wheel.
Percy Jacobs!
Seven years ago, Bill Jacobs had been sentenced to life imprisonment for the vicious rape and murder of a teenager. Jill’s profile had helped to bring about an arrest.
His brother, Percy, had always, despite hard evidence and a confession, protested Bill’s innocence. If anyone bore Jill, or the force in general, a grudge, it was Percy Jacobs. And Max would bet his life that the grudge was weighing even heavier now that Bill had passed away. He’d died in prison two weeks ago.
Percy was a nasty piece of work, too. No better than his brother, he’d been detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for rape.
Perhaps it was time to pay him a visit.
Chapter Eight
When Jill arrived at headquarters the following morning, she went straight to the coffee machine. If she’d known Clive White would be standing there, a clipboard under his arm as he took a full plastic cup from the dispenser, she would have given it a miss.
‘Hi, Jill. I wanted to buy you a drink last night, but you’d already left.’
‘I was driving so I didn’t stay long.’
‘No hangover for you then?’
‘Nope. I just need a coffee to warm me up a bit. Why? Are people feeling a bit the worse for wear after last night’s session?’
‘A few are. The boss won’t be pleased.’
He certainly wouldn’t.
‘So what are you doing here, Clive?’
Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but seeing him at every turn was beginning to annoy her.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not working.’ He thrust the clipboard at her. ‘You remember last year I organized the New Year Run? I’m doing it again this year.’
‘Really?’ And now she felt guilty, which was absurd. ‘Good for you.’
But she felt guilty every time she saw him, as if she’d stolen a favourite toy from a child, and that was ludicrous. She should have more confidence in herself. She’d deemed him unfit to continue in his job, and that should be the end of it.
‘Any chance of some sponsorship?’ he asked. ‘I’m raising funds for the hospice, the same as last year.’
‘Yes, of course.’
She took the clipboard from him, signed her name and promised a more than generous donation if he completed the run. She was sure he would. He
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