Fourth piece from Book - Monday morning
DC Shaw, young and keen, stood outside the library after watching Liz Henderson go in, and he debated whether or not to go inside. It was a decent day, he’d been cooped up in the car since dawn this morning and liked the feel of the fresh air. He stayed where he was, couldn’t see why he needed to be inside witnessing her borrow some books. She was perfectly safe in there. DS Deshpande had pulled the short straw earlier by following Henderson into the department store, a maze of a space where any number of predators – or liaisons – could be hidden. After watching her have a coffee, buy a notepad and visit the Ladies’ toilet he’d been ready to hand in his warrant card. His only reward for the scrutiny had been watching a tall, edgy young woman in black leather biker’s jacket stroll into the Ladies’ toilets too. Her legs were long and her stroll and tight jeans accentuated an already obvious swaying motion. Shaw had laughed lewdly at Deshpande’s recounting of the episode but felt slightly grubby afterward. Shaw deferred to Deshpande’s experience in all things work related, but the former had the edge when it came to niceties. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice the same vision sway into the library shortly after Henderson. Inside the library Liz sat and inserted the flash drive she’d found in the shed into one of the public computers. She inspected the contents while periodically looking over her shoulder and checking the people around her. Beside the keyboard sat the notebook she’d purchased earlier. There was one folder, containing three files. The information there at first seemed innocuous, mostly addresses and phone numbers. One of the addresses she knew, in a small town in southern France. She frowned, but came to no conclusions. Without reason – in keeping with the mood of current events - she copied the information from all three files into her notebook. Asking library staff for a print copy didn’t seem wise for some reason. She ejected the drive and sat staring at the notes she’d written. Maybe she should share this with the police. She could stand and take the flash drive straight to the flame-haired detective standing outside – couldn’t remember his name. It might help them find Dan. She hesitated, stayed in her seat, and checked over her shoulder again. She hadn’t shared when she’d first found the flash drive either. And she didn’t look at it on the home laptop, the one Ann had hastily set up for her. She couldn’t put her finger on why except that she felt exposed and under inspection somehow. The latest news, delivered last night by a new set of detectives, was that Raymond Dixon – the parcel pincher – had been killed and mutilated. Not too many years ago recent events would have left her confidence on the floor. Now she was just fed up. The police had been backwards and forwards, all different faces, wanting more information every time. Those that turned up last night were different to the first lot, more composed, less emotion. It was obvious that Dan was in the frame for poor Dixon’s demise. |
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