Read Online Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) by Emma Salisbury - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Salisbury
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I don’t need to
worry, for Candy doesn’t let me get a word in edgeways.
‘Davy,’
she sobs, and every nerve ending goes on alert as I wait for the axe to fall.
‘There’s been a robbery.’
7
The factory car
park is so full of cop cars it’s like a police officers’ convention. Cops of
all shapes and sizes mill about the forecourt as though that area alone
contains all the answers. I’ve never understood the public’s faith in the
police, for they never detect anything, just trample over people’s lives once a
crime has taken place.
One
of them must have been told to man the gate for he stands rigid between the
posts like some Third Division goalie. He’s a bit of a kid by the look of it,
probably not even started shaving, his skin is pale and free from razor bumps
and missed sections of stubble. As if on cue he steps back to let an armed
police unit drive out of the forecourt. Inside it a dozen men in dark clothing
give me filthy looks because they weren’t able to use their guns. Two community
cops, around MacIntyre’s age, are talking to members of staff seated on the
wooden benches I’d been sunning myself on a few days before. They were from the
shop floor: a man close to retirement age who operates the printing machine
that puts customers’ logos onto the boxes, two engineers and several workers
from packing. The kitchen staff are still in the canteen, I can see them
through the open window serving teas and coffees in polystyrene cups to a line
of officers. I can’t see Candy or any of the management but I know from the
frantic call she made to me that they are still inside being interviewed by
CID.
Today
was payday and Swanson’s paid their staff weekly in cash. It’s not that unusual
around here, what with the number of people working temporary contracts on the
increase and even more living a hand to mouth existence; waiting to get paid at
the end of the month would push most families to their financial limits. It was
one of the reasons I’d been placed there by my parole officer, otherwise she’d
have had to arrange a crisis loan to tide me over and she couldn’t be arsed
with the paperwork.
The
plod on the gate eyeballs me as I wait for Candy and with the niftiness that
only someone our age can muster he bounds over as though he’s seen my mug shot
on Interpol and is about to wrestle me to the ground.
‘Jog
on, Pal.’ He barks, which is a bit of an anti-climax given the energy he’d put
in making his approach.
I
stand my ground. ‘‘fraid I canny, Pal.’ I state pleasantly enough. He narrows
his eyes, squaring his shoulders and barrelling his chest in the identikit way
of his elders that makes me wonder if there is some identifiable gene in police
DNA that means no matter how decent they are when they start they all turn out
the same way.
‘Did
ye no’ hear me, Son?’ He’s sneering now, the curl of his lip letting me know
he’s talking to shite. I wouldn’t mind but he doesn’t even shave all his face
yet, by the look of him.
‘I
heard you perfectly well, Cunt Stubble.’ I inform him brightly enough, ‘Only
I’m here to take the boss’s PA home.’ I pause while he works out what the
initials stand for, ‘You wouldn’t want to add to her fright by telling her
you’d sent me away?’
He
looks fearful as though I’ve asked him a trick question and glances over at his
elders for help but they’re sipping tea and fiddling with the knobs on their
radios as though they’re already bored.
‘What’s
your name?’ he asks grudgingly before stomping into the factory’s main entrance
like a toddler with a burst balloon. Five minutes later he returns, barely
looking in my direction. ‘Wait there.’ He instructs, as though it was his idea.
Candy
emerges from the factory’s main entrance supported by Derek Swanson, the
factory owner. I’d never met him but he’s recognisable from the framed
photographs dotted around reception, shaking hands with the great and
worry, for Candy doesn’t let me get a word in edgeways.
‘Davy,’
she sobs, and every nerve ending goes on alert as I wait for the axe to fall.
‘There’s been a robbery.’
7
The factory car
park is so full of cop cars it’s like a police officers’ convention. Cops of
all shapes and sizes mill about the forecourt as though that area alone
contains all the answers. I’ve never understood the public’s faith in the
police, for they never detect anything, just trample over people’s lives once a
crime has taken place.
One
of them must have been told to man the gate for he stands rigid between the
posts like some Third Division goalie. He’s a bit of a kid by the look of it,
probably not even started shaving, his skin is pale and free from razor bumps
and missed sections of stubble. As if on cue he steps back to let an armed
police unit drive out of the forecourt. Inside it a dozen men in dark clothing
give me filthy looks because they weren’t able to use their guns. Two community
cops, around MacIntyre’s age, are talking to members of staff seated on the
wooden benches I’d been sunning myself on a few days before. They were from the
shop floor: a man close to retirement age who operates the printing machine
that puts customers’ logos onto the boxes, two engineers and several workers
from packing. The kitchen staff are still in the canteen, I can see them
through the open window serving teas and coffees in polystyrene cups to a line
of officers. I can’t see Candy or any of the management but I know from the
frantic call she made to me that they are still inside being interviewed by
CID.
Today
was payday and Swanson’s paid their staff weekly in cash. It’s not that unusual
around here, what with the number of people working temporary contracts on the
increase and even more living a hand to mouth existence; waiting to get paid at
the end of the month would push most families to their financial limits. It was
one of the reasons I’d been placed there by my parole officer, otherwise she’d
have had to arrange a crisis loan to tide me over and she couldn’t be arsed
with the paperwork.
The
plod on the gate eyeballs me as I wait for Candy and with the niftiness that
only someone our age can muster he bounds over as though he’s seen my mug shot
on Interpol and is about to wrestle me to the ground.
‘Jog
on, Pal.’ He barks, which is a bit of an anti-climax given the energy he’d put
in making his approach.
I
stand my ground. ‘‘fraid I canny, Pal.’ I state pleasantly enough. He narrows
his eyes, squaring his shoulders and barrelling his chest in the identikit way
of his elders that makes me wonder if there is some identifiable gene in police
DNA that means no matter how decent they are when they start they all turn out
the same way.
‘Did
ye no’ hear me, Son?’ He’s sneering now, the curl of his lip letting me know
he’s talking to shite. I wouldn’t mind but he doesn’t even shave all his face
yet, by the look of him.
‘I
heard you perfectly well, Cunt Stubble.’ I inform him brightly enough, ‘Only
I’m here to take the boss’s PA home.’ I pause while he works out what the
initials stand for, ‘You wouldn’t want to add to her fright by telling her
you’d sent me away?’
He
looks fearful as though I’ve asked him a trick question and glances over at his
elders for help but they’re sipping tea and fiddling with the knobs on their
radios as though they’re already bored.
‘What’s
your name?’ he asks grudgingly before stomping into the factory’s main entrance
like a toddler with a burst balloon. Five minutes later he returns, barely
looking in my direction. ‘Wait there.’ He instructs, as though it was his idea.
Candy
emerges from the factory’s main entrance supported by Derek Swanson, the
factory owner. I’d never met him but he’s recognisable from the framed
photographs dotted around reception, shaking hands with the great and
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