Hunting for Crows by Iain Cameron Page B

concentration and his arms buckled. The bar, 60 kilos of solid metal, fell against his chest with a deep thump. Not allowing him the time to appreciate what was happening and give him a chance to offer resistance, he pulled it up towards his throat.
    ‘Stop it, you bastard! I can’t...breathe. Who...the fuck are you?’ he said, gasping for air.
    Frantically his fingers were clutching at the bar, trying to move it away from his throat, but the angle wasn’t good for the man on the bench and his assailant’s grip was strong. If Grant wasn't panicking so much he might have noticed that his attacker was standing in a position where his balls were within easy reach of a good punch; good job as anyone who could potentially lift one hundred kilos could pack quite a thump.
    ‘What’s the combination of the safe?’
    ‘How…how do you know...I’ve got a safe?’
    ‘Call it a lucky guess.’ He pressed the bar down harder on his throat.
    ‘Ahhh. Stop it!’
    Momentarily he eased back; the man needed to speak. ‘I won't say it again, the combination of the safe?’
    ‘653...ah, ah 425.’
    ‘653425?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He applied more pressure, and soon Peter Grant struggled no more.

FOURTEEN
     
     
     
     
    What a morning. It took until ten-thirty before householders stopped reporting false alarms at houses in the Elm Grove area, temporarily incapacitated by a power cut, and then they had to return to Churchill Square to pick up yet another shoplifter. To cap off a lousy start to this week’s shift, the intruder they caught climbing through a kitchen window in Patcham was only the son of the stone-deaf woman inside who couldn’t hear him knock and didn’t see the bell alert on her visual display. All PC Cindy Longhurst wanted to do now was get back to John Street nick and enjoy a well-earned mug of Rosie Lea.
    The patrol car turned into Kingswood Street and they were close enough to John Street nick for Cindy to almost taste the heavy aroma of a hot Tetley brew. Just then, Telepathic Tina, otherwise known as TT, the masochistic controller who possessed an uncanny sense of knowing when they weren’t busy or were making their way back to the station for a break, came on the squawk box and sent them to Hove. Cindy’s driver, Dave Gosling executed an angry U-turn, causing a mini-hold-up behind and giving pleasure to the twisted bastard, as his face creased into the first smile of the day as they roared off in the opposite direction.
    Cindy was new to Traffic, a welcome relief from pounding the beat which she’d done for four years, but she’d always liked cars and helping people and so far the job had lived up to her expectations. This was in spite of the behaviour and attitude of her ill-mannered and all-round misogynist companion, a twenty-two-year veteran who was passed-over, pissed-on and more often than not, passed-out. In fact, he didn’t believe women should be in the force at all, but stuck at home doing his washing and ironing, and in such a comment lay the reason why no one had volunteered to marry the cranky sod.
    ‘When TT said this bloke didn’t turn up for work yesterday, did she say if anybody had made any attempt to contact him because if they haven’t–’
    ‘Yep, she did,’ Cindy said glancing at her notes and heading off another moan at Gosling Pass. ‘Friends tried his mobile and the home phone but they didn’t receive a reply. He might be inside and incapacitated in some way.’
    ‘How do we get in? I know the Woodland Drive area, my uncle used to live there, it’s full of big houses with smart-arsed alarm systems and big dogs. I don’t want to be the one standing there for the third time this morning with my dick in my mouth while this screeching thing wakes the whole neighbourhood, and then having to face an angry Alsatian, spitting venom because its master’s gone and tripped down the bloody stairs.’
    ‘Don’t wind me up Dave, you know how I hate dogs. TT said a neighbour, a Mr