1911021494 by MICHAEL HAMBLING Page A

Swanage later tonight if you feel up to it. Or, if you want to kip down for the night, then that will be okay. Believe me, it will be better for you.’
    ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ he murmured.
    Sophie walked outside and took out her mobile phone. She’d been dreading this call for days. She had to tell her new-found grandparents that she and her family could only visit for an afternoon. They sounded disappointed. Sophie was utterly frustrated. She knew they’d started to plan for Graham’s funeral now the remains had been released. They were all hoping that a date could be fixed for the end of the following week.
     

Chapter 7: Blossom
    Friday, Week 1
     
    Benjamin “Blossom” Sourlie stalked out of the block of condemned flats, slinging a small backpack over his shoulder. He hated its sour smell and the grubby, washed-up people that squatted there. He wouldn’t be seen dead in the place if it wasn’t for the monthly supply of drugs and other paraphernalia he had to pick up. He was glad when he reached the fresh air of the street outside. How could people choose to live in such filth? He shook his head, and crossed the road to a narrow lane that led to the car park. His short, squat form cast a shadow as wide as it was tall.
    It was very dark. Blossom didn’t see the thin, hunched form standing in the shadows. The figure stepped out in front of him and drew a knife.
    ‘Gimme your fucking cash,’ the stranger snarled.
    Blossom stopped walking and looked at the man who stood scowling in front of him. He stepped a little closer and slipped his right hand inside his jacket pocket as if to fetch out a wallet. Then his left fist, encased in a soft leather glove, shot out and hit the man hard in the abdomen. The man jerked forward. Blossom’s right fist came up and hit the side of his jaw, breaking it. There was a gurgle as blood filled the mouth. The stranger crashed against the wall and slid to the ground. Blossom didn’t even stop to look at his would-be assailant. He walked past and into the small car park at the end of the alley. There, he unlocked his car, slung the backpack under the front seat and drove away. He smiled in satisfaction. Who needed drugs to get high?
    * * *
    He arrived back at the farmhouse a little after midnight. In some ways the new place was more convenient than Brookway Farm. For a start, it was a good deal closer to Poole. The main problem was a longer boat journey inside the harbour. Brookway had been relatively close to the harbour entrance at Sandbanks. Now the boats would have to navigate right up the harbour, a distance of about six miles. There had been a suggestion that they move to the northern shore. But it was too built up and they could have been spotted, particularly now the police were on their trail.
    Blossom had never understood why that lad’s body had to be put up on top of the rock. Why couldn’t it just have been dumped at sea somewhere, weighted down so it would never be found? Ricky was getting out of control. Blossom didn’t like Ricky’s sadistic streak and his hunger for the big, public show. At some point he’d have to speak up. Either that, or just up sticks and go.
    He unlocked the door to the old farmhouse and went in. All was silent. He locked the bag of drugs into a cupboard, walked through to the kitchen and poured himself a beer. The kitchen range was still warm from when he’d stoked it up earlier in the evening. No one had bothered to put any more fuel on since. Lazy sods. If it hadn’t been for him and Charlie, the whole scheme would have collapsed months ago. Now, with the boss’s sporadic illness, it was beginning to look as if their days were numbered. Who would have thought it? Charlie’s nephew, Ricky, had taken over the operation but success seemed to have turned his head. Maybe Blossom needed to sit down with Charlie and spell out the problems. But how would he react? Blossom shook his head wearily. The trouble was, he and Charlie weren’t