Free The Coldest Blood by Jim Kelly Page B

decorations on a giant Christmas tree.
    The automatic doors opened as Dryden approached, revealing an empty counter, glassed in and meshed to meet terrorist attack. There were three seats for the public, across which lay The Crow ’s ever-vigilant junior reporter Garry Pymoor.
    Dryden woke him up.
    ‘Right,’ said Garry, brushing aside the embarrassment which would have overtaken lesser men. He sat up, unfolding himself from the ubiquitous black leather coat and releasing a faint odour of Indian Pale Ale and bubblegum.
    ‘They phoned. Said they’d got some stuff for us on the cannabis peddling. I was gonna ring…’ he said, yawning so wide that his jaw cracked.
    Dryden pressed a button by a grille and waited for a disembodied voice to crackle into life, but there was silence.
    ‘Garry Pymoor and Philip Dryden from The Crow ,’ he said. The reinforced door clicked open and Dryden pushed through into a long corridor which was slightly sticky underfoot and smelt of disinfectant.
    A man stood at the far end in the customary uniform of the plainclothed detective: grey suit, light blue shirt and dark tie, with polished black slip-on shoes. His hair was white and cropped and his shoulders were set at an angle that exactly matched his career prospects. He welcomed them, offering his hand to Dryden. ‘Thanks for coming. Jock Reade, DI Reade. I’m the drugs liaison officer for the force – along with a few other jobs. We’ve got some film for you…’ Dryden noticed the acrid hint of nicotine mixedwith aftershave and the complete absence of a Scottish accent.
    ‘Great,’ said Dryden. ‘I’m actually here on another case – the man found dead in High Park Flats yesterday. I need to talk to someone; I’ve got some information I think you should have.’
    DI Reade buckled visibly at the prospect of extra work. ‘Er. OK. No one else here at present. But I can take a note – though I’ve got the CCTV set up for Mr Pymoor.’
    ‘Right. But who’s the investigating officer in the High Park Flats case?’
    DI Reade rubbed a finger at his temple: ‘Pretty sure there isn’t one. I mean, bloke had tried to top himself a coupla times – right? We’re stretched, you know, on manpower. But I can pass anything up the line.’
    Dryden held up his hands: ‘OK, OK. Let’s see the film.’
    Reade led the way through the deserted police station. Stairs led down to the cell block, where they were led into a room with two rows of seats before a console of twelve TV screens. Above them was one larger screen showing a magnified image of one of the dozen pictures below. At the moment a lorry was seen backing into the car park by the Market Square, as a single pedestrian, swaddled in a thermal jacket, crossed towards the town’s shopping precinct. Reade hit a switch changing the images. ‘This is High Street just opposite the Lamb Hotel. Trouble spot on a Saturday night, of course. Not much happening now.’
    Dryden nodded. ‘How long do you keep the film?’ He’d always suspected that the cameras were empty.
    ‘Usually 48 hours – then we reuse it. Otherwise we’d disappear under the video cartridges.’
    Reade sat on the console desktop, playing with a packet of Silk Cut. ‘As you know, we’ve been concerned aboutcannabis being sold to teenagers in Ely. It happened quite suddenly, about a month ago, and continued for nearly three weeks. There’s no fresh reports – but we’d like to nail this in case it’s just a brief pause in the supply.
    ‘We picked up a couple of kids out of their heads down by the bypass last Thursday. They’d done some glue, which is nothing new, but they reeked of dope. Let’s say we were sympathetic about their cases – and in return we got some information about the supplier. They said he sells out of a car after dark just here…’
    Reade got up and stabbed a finger into a large map of the town centre. ‘Just here. Very clever – it’s one of several blind spots not covered by the