a dance floor. That should narrow it down to a few hundred places.” She said sarcastically. They were looking for a needle in a pile of needles. “I want a team of four working on the script that was on the body. Put Watkin’s team on it. Graham took a lot of pictures of it. Have him send over everything he has and tell Watkin that I want to know what it is and what it says and tell him that I want to know today. In the meantime, let’s hope Kathy finds something.”
CHAPTER 9
Constable Bowers brought his vehicle to a halt outside a new apartment block, which overlooked Sefton Park. Ornate railings separated the manicured lawns from the road and the entire plot was surrounded by well established trees. Bowers recalled that a school once stood on the spot. Developers had built sixty flats on it, which netted them millions. “How the other half live,” he sighed. He checked his notes for the apartment number and grumbled to himself about how many years he would have to save just to raise a deposit to buy a flat in a property like that. Feeling aggrieved at being sent on such a tedious errand, he opened the door and climbed out.
He glanced over at the park; acres of lawns ran gently down to the boating lake. A tractor purred in the distance, trimming the grass and clearing fallen leaves. The cool breeze that ruffled his greying hair had deterred all but the most determined walkers from enjoying the greenery. Bowers walked through the gates and checked the parking bays. According to control, a woman called Jackie Webb owned apartment number four and had a Mercedes SLK registered to her name. Most of the parking bays were empty but number four had a vehicle in it. There was a German made vehicle there but it wasn’t a Mercedes. It was a 3-series BMW.
Bowers thought about calling it in but decided not to. He needed to be sure of the details before he made a report. He turned towards the apartments and walked along a stone path to where the ground floor flats were. The numbers went up in twos; Jackie Webb’s being the second door along the path. The front window was bowed, Georgian style with lots of small square panes. Some of the panes were dimpled. His view inside was blocked by heavy curtains that were closed. He tapped his knuckles on the window and listened for movement inside. Nothing.
Bowers moved to the front door and peered through the bevelled glass. It was a pointless exercise. The image was so distorted that he couldn’t glean any information from it. He had a blurred impression of the hallway and nothing more. His orders were to knock on the door and check out the car parking bays. They had specifically ordered him not to touch the letterbox or try to enter the property. He had heard about the explosion across town and reading between the lines, it was obvious that there was a connection. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited. Nothing.
“Seven, five, five,” he called into his coms. The radio crackled and buzzed.
“Go ahead, seven, five, five.”
“No reply at number four Sefton Heights but there is a 3-series BMW parked in the owner’s bay.”
“Roger that,” the voice replied. “I’ll relay it to the DI. Standby.”
“Roger,” he said distracted. A black Ford sped into the car park, tyres squealing as it screeched to a halt. The driver, a casually dressed middle aged woman with blond hair opened the door and walked quickly towards him, her face a picture of fear and concern.
“This is my daughter’s flat,” she said breathlessly. “Jackie Webb is my daughter. I have a key.” She tried to pass by him. “I need to get in to see if she is
CHAPTER 9
Constable Bowers brought his vehicle to a halt outside a new apartment block, which overlooked Sefton Park. Ornate railings separated the manicured lawns from the road and the entire plot was surrounded by well established trees. Bowers recalled that a school once stood on the spot. Developers had built sixty flats on it, which netted them millions. “How the other half live,” he sighed. He checked his notes for the apartment number and grumbled to himself about how many years he would have to save just to raise a deposit to buy a flat in a property like that. Feeling aggrieved at being sent on such a tedious errand, he opened the door and climbed out.
He glanced over at the park; acres of lawns ran gently down to the boating lake. A tractor purred in the distance, trimming the grass and clearing fallen leaves. The cool breeze that ruffled his greying hair had deterred all but the most determined walkers from enjoying the greenery. Bowers walked through the gates and checked the parking bays. According to control, a woman called Jackie Webb owned apartment number four and had a Mercedes SLK registered to her name. Most of the parking bays were empty but number four had a vehicle in it. There was a German made vehicle there but it wasn’t a Mercedes. It was a 3-series BMW.
Bowers thought about calling it in but decided not to. He needed to be sure of the details before he made a report. He turned towards the apartments and walked along a stone path to where the ground floor flats were. The numbers went up in twos; Jackie Webb’s being the second door along the path. The front window was bowed, Georgian style with lots of small square panes. Some of the panes were dimpled. His view inside was blocked by heavy curtains that were closed. He tapped his knuckles on the window and listened for movement inside. Nothing.
Bowers moved to the front door and peered through the bevelled glass. It was a pointless exercise. The image was so distorted that he couldn’t glean any information from it. He had a blurred impression of the hallway and nothing more. His orders were to knock on the door and check out the car parking bays. They had specifically ordered him not to touch the letterbox or try to enter the property. He had heard about the explosion across town and reading between the lines, it was obvious that there was a connection. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited. Nothing.
“Seven, five, five,” he called into his coms. The radio crackled and buzzed.
“Go ahead, seven, five, five.”
“No reply at number four Sefton Heights but there is a 3-series BMW parked in the owner’s bay.”
“Roger that,” the voice replied. “I’ll relay it to the DI. Standby.”
“Roger,” he said distracted. A black Ford sped into the car park, tyres squealing as it screeched to a halt. The driver, a casually dressed middle aged woman with blond hair opened the door and walked quickly towards him, her face a picture of fear and concern.
“This is my daughter’s flat,” she said breathlessly. “Jackie Webb is my daughter. I have a key.” She tried to pass by him. “I need to get in to see if she is
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