Chill Factor Read Free Page B

Both crashed and burned, both somebody’s pride and joy. Two more people would be braving the rigors of public transport this morning, or arranging for neighbours to take the kids to school and grandma to her appointment at the hospital, while they sorted the insurance.
    “Somebody mugged a Big Issue seller,” he said.
    “I know. I’ve seen the report from downstairs. Any ideas?”
    “No, but I could borrow a couple of bags and a dog, and we could have a day in the field, undercover, while the weather’s nice.”
    I looked down at my jeans and check shirt. I dress the same nowadays as I did when I was an art student, before the Flood. “I wouldn’t have to borrow any clothes,” I said, before he could.
    “That’s true,” he confirmed, adding: “or have a haircut.”
    I changed the subject. “Where’s young Jamie Walker these days?”
    “Ah,” Dave began. “You’ve noticed the small blip in the stolen vehicles chart, with the emphasis on older cars with low-tech ignition systems.”
    “So where is he?”
    “He finished his youth custody yesterday. Jeff and Annette have gone round to his mam’s to see if he’s there.”
    “The little bastard,” I hissed. “We could do without him ballsing up all our figures and budgets.”
    Jamie Walker was fourteen years old and weighed seven stones. Our file on him was so thick he couldn’t see over it. He’d spent nearly all his short life in care and his disregard for the law was total. We couldn’t touch him, couldn’t hurt him. He’d never had anything so he didn’t know what loss was. His mother was a slag who only remembered his dad as an obligatory but unsatisfactory tumble with a lorry driver in his cab on the way back from a Garry Glitter concert.
    Jamie was bright and cocky. The uniformed boys would slip him a fag while he was in the cells, and have a chat with him. They talked about cars and football, man to man, and invited him to the youth club for a game. He said he’d come, but he never did. Table tennis and five-a-side can’t compete with handbrake turns and police chases. Milky coffee doesn’t give you the same buzz as Evostick.
    I hated him. Dave and the others saw the victims as they sat in their homes, shell-shocked, and asked: “Why?” Why was he so mindlessly destructive? Why did he have to torch their car? Why did magistrates allow him out on the streets to commit offence upon offence? It was nothing for Jamie to be arrested while on bail, while on probation, while awaiting to appear before the youth court, for a string of separate offences. More than once his hearing had ground to a halt because the prosecution thought they were in court for a stolen car, the defence were all wound up about a burglary and the child psychiatrist had spent most of her weekend analysing why a fourteen-year-old brought up by his grandma would steal her pension book. We had a computer programme dedicated solely to sorting his progress through the system because it was too complicated for the human mind. He was on first-name terms with all the duty solicitors andthey loved him.
    I didn’t. He made a mockery of my overtime budgets, ruined my clear-up statistics and wasted resources that could have been used to solve proper crime. Or what I thought of as proper crime. I hated him, but not for that. Not for any of that. I had other reasons to hate him.
    “Fancy going for a pint tonight?” Dave was asking.
    “Oh, er, yeah. Good idea,” I replied. We went for a pint nearly every Wednesday night.
    “We could go to the Spinners Arms,” he suggested.
    “That’ll make a nice change,” I said, because we always went to the Spinners Arms. “Ring Nigel and tell him we’ll see him there,” I added. Nigel Newley was one of my hotshot proteges who’d recently moved on to HQ in the quest for fame and glory.
    “I’ve tried, but he’s on holiday. Shirley said she might come.” Shirley was Dave’s wife, who didn’t usually come out with us but it was all