Over the Edge Read Online Free PDF Page A

he was seventeen I hardly ever saw him.’
    ‘But you’ve no idea if he was working for anybody, or what he was doing?’
    ‘Driving, at a guess. He was mad keen on cars and driving.’
    ‘Right. Dale’s fingerprints and DNA were already on our files, and we’ve matched them to the person in the car. However, it’s normal for us to ask a family member to formally identify the body. Do you think you’ll be up to it?’
    Her face clouded with alarm. ‘I thought you said it was him.’
    ‘It is. There’s no doubt about it. It’s not essential but we’d still like you to confirm it. And sometimes…you know…it helps if you can see the body.’
    ‘But you’re certain it’s him?’
    ‘Certain.’
    ‘OK. When? When do you want me to do it?’
    ‘Tomorrow morning, or will you be working?’
    ‘My son is dead. I think that’s worth a day off work, don’t you, Inspector? And maybe I’ll have another for the funeral. Then I can say good riddance to him once and for all.’

After Monday’s morning prayers in the superintendents office we held our normal meeting in the CID office. It’s when we compare notes to bring each other up to speed, and I hand out any new cases.
    ‘OK,’ I began. ‘Mr Wood wants a result on the burglaries, so where are we at?’
    ‘Which burglaries?’ somebody asked.
    ‘Any of them.’
    ‘Well,’ Jeff Caton began, ‘as you know, Charlie, we appear to have two different MOs, therefore possibly two teams at work. One is concentrating on properties at the lower end of the scale, mainly in the Sylvan Fields estate, and the others are more mobile and breaking in to more expensive properties.’
    I let him rabbit on about the burglaries. Jeff never uses one word if seven will do. Some stolen items had been recovered from Honest John’s secondhandshop, but the seller had given a false address and Honest John’s description was vague.
    ‘He’s a lying toad,’ Dave Sparkington informed us all.
    Fingerprints had been found at one house, and blood from the glass of a broken window at another, but they weren’t on the database. It was all bread-and butter stuff, like we have all the time. We’d eventually catch someone and put them in court, but they’d be a first-time offender and walk away with probation or community service.
    ‘As you will have noticed,’ I said when we’d finished with the burglaries, ‘our night ’tec has graciously stayed behind to speak to the meeting. That’s him in the corner, blinking like an owl, for those of you who’ve forgotten what he looks like. Over to you, Rodger.’
    Rodger came to Britain from Jamaica as a small boy, but he’s no token black man. He’s my secret weapon. Heckley is a small town, and most of us are probably known to all the villains, but not Rodger. Nobody expects a detective to be black, even if he is six-and-a-half feet tall and dresses like the Duke of Westminster. He and his wife have volunteered to work regular nights, rather than be on differing shift rotas, so they can see more of each other. And, as he sometimes says in a mock West Indies accent: when he puts on his shades and closes his mouth, nobody can see him.
    ‘There was an RTA on the top road in the early hours of last Thursday,’ he told us, and went on to describe the accident. He read from the milkman’s statement about seeing two sports cars apparently racing a month earlier. ‘This is where it gets interesting,’ he said. ‘Five weeks ago, on September twentieth, thieves stole an MG TF from a house in Tintwistle. Four days later a similar car was hijacked from a young woman in a multi-storey car park in Manchester. Neither car has been seen again, unless they are what the milkman saw.’
    ‘Hairdressers’ cars,’ someone informed us disdainfully.
    ‘The 1.8VV’s a flyer,’ one of the younger members protested.
    ‘If you call nought to 60 in 7.7 flying.’
    ‘Whoa!’ I interrupted. ‘We’re not discussing the merits of MGs. Carry on,