Greed: A DI Scott Baker Novel Read Free

arcades on Palace Pier, the competitive streak coming out in both of them.
    Scott loved nothing more than wandering hand in hand around the Lanes enjoying the culture, discovering small bistros and boutique shops…all wonderful memories that gave him both happiness and sadness in equal measures.
    He turned left onto Kingsway and headed along the coast road. He used every opportunity to drive along this stretch of road as often as he could. There was something very serene and relaxing about driving with the openness of the sea view, the smell of salt air and the constant chatter from the many seagulls that floated on the thermals whilst scavenging for discarded chips and other take away delicacies.
    Today wasn’t any different. There was sharpness in the air, and winter still had its claws firmly dug in. The chill in the air, together with a low setting sun meant that mornings and evenings were crisp and occasionally frosty; however daytime temperatures often crept into low double digits. To others around the country, it would be enough to dampen spirits; Brightonians on the other hand seemed to be immune to the extremes and embraced it like a welcomed tonic.
    It wasn’t long before he saw the blue flashing lights of stationary cars and the familiar blue and white police cordon tape. The traffic was at a snail’s pace as drivers slowed down to rubber neck and satisfy their perverse curiosity, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone’s misfortune. Upon arriving at the cordon, he parked up behind a patrol car and stepped out to be greeted by a crowd of nosey spectators with nothing better to do that watch the spectacle unfolding.

Chapter 2
    Preston Street was an unusual street. It was narrow and hemmed in by four story regency style buildings, many in desperate need of renovation, which only led to the feeling of it being a dark claustrophobic environment. Paint was curling at the edges and flaking off the walls. Windows were grubby and gritty. It was fair to say that the street was a far cry from its neighbour, Regency Square that boasted magnificent grade two listed buildings. Impressive well maintained cream exteriors housed exquisite generous sized apartments and boutique hotels.
    It was a street once described as a car crash of small multi-cultural restaurants and convenience stores, a few bars, casinos, and the odd nightclub. There certainly wasn’t a theme running to the street, with very little effort made to make establishments inviting.
    Out towards the seafront and beyond, lay the ruins of the once magnificent West Pier, now nothing more than a few iron support structures eerily jutting out from the sea bed, resembling a decapitated, battered and twisted metal skeleton. Scott reflected on the damage caused to the pier during the great storm of 1987 that wreaked havoc across the city, levelling thousands of trees and bringing down power lines.
    It was a ferocious storm misjudged by the weathermen. Scott recalled watching a particular forecaster dispel rumours that a storm was on its way with hurricane-force winds in excess of 100 mph. Oh how wrong they were, he thought with a disbelieving shake of his head.
    Even to this day he could recall word for word what he witnessed on TV as the forecaster commented, “Earlier on today, apparently, a woman rang the BBC and said she heard there was a hurricane on the way; well, if you’re watching, don’t worry, there isn’t” .
    What a fuck up, he mused.
    The overnight storm cut off all road and rail transport for much of the south coast and beyond. A subsequent storm and fire fifteen years later had given the pier its death sentence, causing it to collapse and finally go to its watery grave.
    The area had been cordoned off with police tape. It was essential to protect any crime scene, so a scene guard was always assigned to monitor the cordon. Their key tasks were to protect the scene from contamination by onlookers, preserve the integrity of exhibits, and account for