EXCERPT
Option One (Crime Sites)
Crammed
to one side of the roomy trunk, Gibbons’ limbs were folded awkwardly, his
jacket askew. His mouth gaped open and a neat entry hole was positioned
equidistant to each glazed eye. All in all, Detective Gibbons had met a messy
end. Blood pooled beneath him, brain-matter adhered to the exterior of the
vodka crates, obscuring the brand detailing and counterfeit shipping
information. The writing on the boxes was unintelligible anyway, to anyone who
wasn’t of eastern European descent and in truth contraband vodka was the least
of Connell’s concerns. He knew where it had come from, had a good idea where it
was destined, and short of slipping a bottle in his own back pocket for later,
could see no value to the find. He slammed a hand at the lid of the trunk with
frustration. It was hardly worth the trouble of Frankie loaning out his car if
all Gibbons was using it for was to transport a few bottles of low end liquor.
There had to be more than that. Why else would someone decide to put a gun to
his head? He reached in gingerly and slid the crates aside. They moved with
ease amidst the slick pool of blood, revealing something caught at the back,
clutched in Gibbons outstretched hand.
Damn,
muttered Connell. It couldn’t be at the front where it was easy to reach, that
would be too damned easy. He balanced on one foot and leaned in further. Trying
very hard to avoid the mess that remained of Gibbons, he grasped a manila file
similar to the one Hamilton had slammed on the desk when he’d interrogated him
the previous day. Not quite as thick, but Connell doubted many would have a
file as full of bullshit and half truths as his. All the same he guessed it had
come from the same place. He caught hold of the corner, pulled it out from
Gibbons’ death grip and flipped it open.
Inside
was a sheaf of paper with a mixture of type written text supplemented in the
margin, by pencil scrawl. Along with the report were a number of A4 black and
white photos. Obviously taken on a long lens with a shaky hand, they were
grainy shots procured at various locations around the city. The only constant,
being that he featured in every one. He scanned them quickly, unclear at their
purpose until he picked up the last one. This photo had been taken in the alley
outside the library. He was shown paused in the doorway, Molly stood before
him, her hand in his, looking directly at the camera.
He
recalled the moment vividly. The uneasy feeling that skittered down his spine,
as Molly held him back. The awareness that someone was out there and Molly had
known it all along. He’d felt her anxiety, her surprising strength as she
gripped his hand, but the look on her face as captured by the lens, wasn’t
fearful. It was resigned, almost regretful, as if maybe she knew exactly what
was to come. He allowed the file to slip from his hand and sucked in a breath.
He had the same feeling now. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck
and shrugged to dispel them.
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