Greywater

C. Dalby D.

Description

Gang warfare on the streets of Temple Caneston. The Symes brothers are in town and ready to challenge the underworld leader, Victor Monk. Detective Sergeant Hazel Vernon finds herself having to work with a rookie detective constable. She also has to contend with crooked cops, a doctor with a shoe fetish and a pair of would-be psychics. Then the fat ninja turns up and Hazel's day just becomes a lot stranger.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528944700
• Langue: English

Extrait

Greywater
D. C. Dalby
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-01-31
Greywater About the Author Copyright Information Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty
About the Author
D. C. Dalby is a Yorkshire-born writer. He likes old movies, blue cheese and cats, though not necessarily in that order. A bit of an old hippie with a liking for folk music, he can usually be found sitting in front of his computer screen, staring at a piece of virtual paper in mild desperation. To date, he has written several books featuring Detective Sergeant Vernon of the Temple Caneston, CID. When not writing, he is out and about taking bad pictures with a digital camera that he doesn’t really know how to work.
Copyright Information
Copyright © D. C. Dalby (2019)
The right of D. C. Dalby to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528926072 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528944700 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter One
Hazel Vernon ran.
She chased. She knew she was younger, fitter and faster than the big, lumbering, badly dressed man she was trying to catch. Somehow, though he was ten years older, several kilos heavier and a red-faced, puffing wreck, Harry Sanford managed to remain just out of reach.
They raced down the rain-slicked streets, as a steady drizzle threatened to become a downpour. Sanford’s shoes slipping and sliding on the wet pavement. His arms cartwheeling absurdly as he managed to stay on his feet, a man propelled as much by desperation than any skill.
Hazel ran after him, trying to keep her pace measured. A steady, relaxed rhythm, knowing that in the end she could outlast his mad run. There were a couple more police officers behind her and she knew that there would be more in front. Shouting at him to stop hadn’t worked. So they ran on. Past locals. Past tourists. No doubt social media would have something to say about this as several of the people they passed recorded the incident and would, of course, be posting it on some kind of website.
Police chase fleeing man.
Man easily outruns cops.
The one that got away.
Hazel could see the headlines already. No one knew Harry Sanford, and no one had any idea why the police were chasing him. But everyone made certain they neither helped nor hindered his capture. Neither side had friends here, just an audience. Spectators who were waiting to see how this turned out.
They had been running for about ten minutes now. Ever since Hazel and two police officers turned up at a rather run-down old house on the outskirts of town. This had been Harry Sanford’s old family home. He had grown up there and learned to be a petty criminal under the tutelage of his long dead father and, presumably, long suffering mother. He’d fled there to avoid the police and it had been the first place the police had gone to.
Harry was no criminal genius. Just a very big and not very bright, badly educated man who had the misfortune to be born into the family and area he had been. Harry Sanford was, to put it simply, a very unlucky man.
Instead of saying, “It’s a fair cop,” and putting his hands up, he had run.
Over the fence and down the narrow back alley, an alley too narrow for a car. The police couldn’t get back to their car in time to be able to cut him off so they had simply run after him.
By now they were in town proper. As Hazel ran, she could hear the police sirens in the distance getting louder. She wasn’t sure if Harry could hear them; he just ran. He seemed oblivious to everything except running. So far there hadn’t been enough people in the street to cause much obstruction. But as they moved further into town, the possibility that someone was likely to get hurt increased.
The police sirens were growing louder and coming from the opposite direction. Right ahead was a bridge over the railway. A long, steep bridge. Harry was already flagging, his arms waving erratically, his legs looking like jelly, the stupidly long coat he wore threatening to trip him up.
The bridge must have registered because he cut left right before it went down a side street. Hazel followed, she was starting to loosen up now and get settled into a comfortable jog.
Harry Sanford managed to run about halfway down the street before he stopped and leaned against one of the houses, gasping for breath. He wheezed and nearly retched, doubled over.
Hazel came to a stop about three metres from him.
“You…” he said. And bent double, hands on his knees, then he waved vaguely in her direction. “You…” he tried again and shook his head. “…Stay…away…”
“It’s over.” Hazel could hear the two constables running up behind her and the siren of a nearby police car becoming louder. “Come on, Harry.” She remained where she was, out of reach. There was no hurry. The two constables came up behind her. The police car siren was much louder now. “Let’s go, we’ve had enough exercise for the day.”
“No, I’m not coming.” He was like an oversized petulant child. Hazel didn’t know him very well but he was in his mid-forties. He wasn’t a man who had spent his life in a healthy way. He was a good thirty kilos heavier than he should be. He drank, he smoked but exercise was something alien to him. In his younger days, he had probably been a good looking man. Now he was just big and soft. Hazel assumed he was fairly good at what he did, which was looking tough without actually needing to be tough and stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down from people who were smaller and weaker than he was. Beyond that, there wasn’t much to say in his favour.
The police car arrived on the road. It slowed and drove carefully past the little collection of people. The siren switched off but the blue light continued to revolve. In this city, the Freelander was a popular choice for a police car because of the nearby countryside.
The car parked across the road just beyond Harry Sanford. He watched it arrive and park up, his eyes going wider. He was scared. That was bad. You never quite knew what a scared person would do.
“That’s your ride, Harry,” Hazel said, “Come on we can all go to the station together and we can get this sorted out.” The locals had noticed what was happening and turned out to see. Mostly middle aged women and a few men. “Come on, Harry, we can fix this. You’re in trouble but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“No.” He was getting his breath back, but he wasn’t going anywhere and he knew it, “I’m not going. You’re not taking me in.” He looked around desperately. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have much choice, Harry,” Hazel said, “let’s go, at least we’ll be out of the rain. You can sit down, have a nice cup of tea.”
“I don’t want a nice cup of sodding tea!”
“Coffee then,” Hazel said, “come on, Harry. You tell us your troubles, and we’ll see what we can do. How does that sound?”
It might have sounded promising, Hazel had kept calm and gently pointed out that he wasn’t going anywhere other than with the police. His future, at least his immediate one, was currently written in stone. It might even have penetrated his dense and frightened skull.
But then one of the locals had to step out from the crowd, out from the background with not a mobile phone but a big, professional looking camera. He knelt down, aimed the camera at Harry Sanford and let off the electronic flash.
“Not coming!” It was as if the harsh blue electronic light was a signal, “No!” Harry yelled and ran towards Hazel, fully tilt his arms stretched out in front. “Leave me alone.”
He powered into her at top speed. Hazel grasped at his coat, stuck up a foot and let the momentum knock her off her feet.
The pavement was hard, cold wet, and she trusted to her body armour to absorb most of the impact. She went down, straightening the leg she had positioned in his stomach. The Japanese call it Tomoe Nage. A pretty devastating and very well executed circle throw. Hazel pulled with her arms and pushed with her right leg. Momentum and gravity did the rest.
Harry Sanford slammed into the pavement beyond her head, right on his back with no fancy space age body armour to protect him.
Hazel lay on the pavement knowing she should be on her feet as soon as possible, but she remained there, as the rain began to come down and the idiot with the camera continued to illuminate the street with his artificial lightning.
“You all right, Sergeant?” One of the constables asked.
“I’m fine.” Hazel sat up. She looked around at the moaning form of Harry Sanford stretched out on the pavement. “Read him his right and then I’ll work out what we do with him.”
“I’m not really sure what we can do with him.” Michelle Russo was part of the crown prosecution service. She was as tall as Hazel, about 1.8 metres, but she looked slimmer without being overly skinny. She had a reassuringly Scottish accent and carefully prepared shoulder length hair. Today she was in a dark, wine coloured business suit.