Snatched From Home: What Would You Do To Save Your Children? (DI Harry Evans Book 1) by Graham Smith Page B
Authors: Graham Smith
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trace the new owners and find out who was behind the scam.
When they reached Silloth, Evans declined Campbell’s suggestion of a visit to the garage, instead pulling into the sprawling caravan site that housed Jumpers Entertainment Centre. A disco-pub, family-style restaurant and games machines were all housed in one shed-like building.
There were rows of static caravans running perpendicular to the Solway Firth, most had cars parked in front of them. People wandered back and forth in holiday clothes despite the cool sea breeze carried from the nearby shore.
Pulling into a disabled parking space, Evans switched off the engine, pulled out his mobile and sent off a short text which Campbell did not get to see.
A groundskeeper approached them and pointing out they’d parked in a disabled space. Evans fixed the man with an icy stare. ‘I’ve got Tourette’s. Fuck off.’
‘You can’t speak to members of the public like that.’ Campbell struggled to keep his face straight while getting the right amount of condemnation into his voice, as the bemused groundskeeper walked away shaking his head. Despite being shocked by Evans’s cavalier attitude to public relations, he couldn’t help but laugh at his terminology.
‘Jobsworths get right on my tit end. Why is this place not open yet? Don’t they want to get back on track? Or are they having a coupla days’ mourning for the missing wonga?’
‘There’s somebody in there.’ Campbell had ignored Evans’s latest diatribe and was peering through the window. He banged on the glass and the person who came across to the door was in charge of something or other, if the flashy suit and expensive haircut were any indication.
This guy has to be a wanker; he’s dressed like he’s managing the Waldorf Astoria, when in reality he’s in charge of a shitty little caravan site in a godforsaken, weather-beaten hellhole.
‘DIs Campbell and Evans.’ Campbell made the introductions to the man who identified himself as George Davis, the manager. ‘All we need to trouble you for is a look at where the safe is, our colleagues have got most of the details we require.’
‘Just follow me and I’ll show you where it is.’ Davis led them through the building into the back of house area. An emergency exit and the door to the public areas were the only means of accessing the area.
‘Is this door alarmed?’ Evans peered at the back door looking for wires or contact sensors.
‘No, it’s not, unfortunately. I’ve asked the proprietor to have the alarm system added to it, but he was reluctant to spend the money.’
‘He’ll mebbe have more of an incentive now.’ Evans turned to Campbell. ‘Right, mara, take a look at this safe then tell me what the code number is.’
Evans scribbled on a piece of paper he retrieved from his pocket, while Campbell scrutinised the safe.
Campbell studied the safe for a moment and when he felt confident he straightened up and faced Evans. ‘0898A.’
Evans unfolded the scrap of paper he’d written on. ‘0898A.’
‘How the hell do you both know that?’ Davis was now questioning the validity of these policemen who had waltzed in and cracked the safe code in less than two minutes.
‘The numbers eight, nine and zero are practically worn away, while all the others are virtually factory fresh, as is the letter B while A is again very much worn. By the look of the safe it dates back to the early nineties at most. This was a time when the number oh eight nine eight preceded all the phone sex lines, so it would be a good mnemonic.’
Campbell was enjoying the look of dismay washing over the pretentious Davis.
‘Bloody hell, it’s obvious when you explain it like that.’
They made their way out with Evans pausing to look at a scenic calendar that hung in the manager’s office.
Campbell got a text from Lauren informing him that they had a meeting with Bandits Express’s owner at 3 p.m., Cumbria Food Service’s manager at 4 p.m. at
When they reached Silloth, Evans declined Campbell’s suggestion of a visit to the garage, instead pulling into the sprawling caravan site that housed Jumpers Entertainment Centre. A disco-pub, family-style restaurant and games machines were all housed in one shed-like building.
There were rows of static caravans running perpendicular to the Solway Firth, most had cars parked in front of them. People wandered back and forth in holiday clothes despite the cool sea breeze carried from the nearby shore.
Pulling into a disabled parking space, Evans switched off the engine, pulled out his mobile and sent off a short text which Campbell did not get to see.
A groundskeeper approached them and pointing out they’d parked in a disabled space. Evans fixed the man with an icy stare. ‘I’ve got Tourette’s. Fuck off.’
‘You can’t speak to members of the public like that.’ Campbell struggled to keep his face straight while getting the right amount of condemnation into his voice, as the bemused groundskeeper walked away shaking his head. Despite being shocked by Evans’s cavalier attitude to public relations, he couldn’t help but laugh at his terminology.
‘Jobsworths get right on my tit end. Why is this place not open yet? Don’t they want to get back on track? Or are they having a coupla days’ mourning for the missing wonga?’
‘There’s somebody in there.’ Campbell had ignored Evans’s latest diatribe and was peering through the window. He banged on the glass and the person who came across to the door was in charge of something or other, if the flashy suit and expensive haircut were any indication.
This guy has to be a wanker; he’s dressed like he’s managing the Waldorf Astoria, when in reality he’s in charge of a shitty little caravan site in a godforsaken, weather-beaten hellhole.
‘DIs Campbell and Evans.’ Campbell made the introductions to the man who identified himself as George Davis, the manager. ‘All we need to trouble you for is a look at where the safe is, our colleagues have got most of the details we require.’
‘Just follow me and I’ll show you where it is.’ Davis led them through the building into the back of house area. An emergency exit and the door to the public areas were the only means of accessing the area.
‘Is this door alarmed?’ Evans peered at the back door looking for wires or contact sensors.
‘No, it’s not, unfortunately. I’ve asked the proprietor to have the alarm system added to it, but he was reluctant to spend the money.’
‘He’ll mebbe have more of an incentive now.’ Evans turned to Campbell. ‘Right, mara, take a look at this safe then tell me what the code number is.’
Evans scribbled on a piece of paper he retrieved from his pocket, while Campbell scrutinised the safe.
Campbell studied the safe for a moment and when he felt confident he straightened up and faced Evans. ‘0898A.’
Evans unfolded the scrap of paper he’d written on. ‘0898A.’
‘How the hell do you both know that?’ Davis was now questioning the validity of these policemen who had waltzed in and cracked the safe code in less than two minutes.
‘The numbers eight, nine and zero are practically worn away, while all the others are virtually factory fresh, as is the letter B while A is again very much worn. By the look of the safe it dates back to the early nineties at most. This was a time when the number oh eight nine eight preceded all the phone sex lines, so it would be a good mnemonic.’
Campbell was enjoying the look of dismay washing over the pretentious Davis.
‘Bloody hell, it’s obvious when you explain it like that.’
They made their way out with Evans pausing to look at a scenic calendar that hung in the manager’s office.
Campbell got a text from Lauren informing him that they had a meeting with Bandits Express’s owner at 3 p.m., Cumbria Food Service’s manager at 4 p.m. at
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