Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

a new lead in a case we’ve been working on, instructing us to make some inquiries. He hands the file to me. ‘Any questions?’

‘Nope, we’ll get straight on it, sir.’

‘Also, I need you two to look into a Jason Harper. That name ring a bell for either of you?’

Rob and I glance at each other, and we both shake our heads.

‘Possible links to Shane Baker.’

Interesting. We’ve had Shane Baker on our radar for some time as part of a larger drugs gang we are trying to infiltrate.

Arthur rolls up his shirt sleeves with his pudgy hands. ‘Jason Harper. Twenty-five. Non-custodial sentence for theft in 2017. Got caught with a boot full of designer shoes and similar crap. Lives at seventeen Pineland Avenue with his parents. Neighbours have reported strange comings and goings, claiming he’s dealing drugs, but there’s no proof. This is the second time they’ve called about it. Stokes visited them. They said they’ve seen Harper with a gun too, but when Stokes called next door, Harper wasn’t there. Stokes spoke to the parents who claimed the neighbours were a couple of busybodies. Follow up, will you? They don’t want uniform, so get down there sometime. Not urgent. In the next day or so will do.’

‘Which neighbours?’ Rob asks. ‘Fifteen or nineteen?’

‘Nineteen. First, Operation Carlisle.’ Arthur looks at me. ‘Where’s this report you’ve been promising me for the last week?’

‘Actually, sir, you only gave it to me last Friday, and you said I had until the end of this week to complete,’ I say, with confidence. Despite being the office Rottweiler, his growl is far worse than his bite.

‘You’d better get on with it, then,’ he says, ushering us away like we’re a couple of annoyances he could do without.

I catch up on endless admin and manage to finish the Operation Carlisle report by midday. Rob and I head off to carry out some witness interviews, popping into Tesco Express for a meal deal on the way. On the drive back, we stop off at Pineland Avenue. Mr and Mrs Shirley, a retired couple, are sweet enough, but give us nothing to go on other than a hunch their neighbour’s son is friends with the “wrong sort”.

‘It’s only when his parents are out,’ Mrs Shirley says, twitching her net curtains. ‘All strange kinds of men and women appear. Would you like some tea, dear?’ She gestures to Rob. ‘And your friend?’

I politely decline her offer. I don’t want to spend more time here than I have to. Annoyingly Rob accepts, so I say I’ve changed my mind. ‘No problem, everything’s already prepared.’ She wanders off to the kitchen, returning less than five minutes later with a tray of cups and saucers and a teapot covered in country roses. There is a plate of chocolate digestives on there too. She pours the tea and tops up each cup with milk from a small crystal jug.

‘Can you describe these men and women to me?’ I ask.

Mr and Mrs Shirley exchange shrugs. ‘Some are tall and big,’ says Mrs Shirley, handing around the biscuits, prompting Rob to take two. Not that he needs the encouragement, I laugh to myself.

‘Young. Around your age,’ Mr Shirley says. He’s sitting in a recliner by the fireplace; a newspaper and the TV remote rest on the arm of the chair.

‘The policemen who visited you before asked you to keep a record of your observations.’

‘That’s right,’ says Mr Shirley, peering over the top of his spectacles.

‘Can I see it?’ I ask.

‘Oh, no, you can’t,’ says Mrs Shirley, perching on the edge of the sofa beside me. She places her cup and saucer on the table and gathers the folds in her pleated skirt like a fan, letting them spring free before repeating this action. Gather, fold, repeat. ‘We were too worried.’

‘What about?’

‘We’re too old for any trouble.’

‘I can assure you, Mr and Mrs Shirley, that anything you tell us will be dealt with in the strictest of confidence. We need help catching criminals, and it’s only the local community – people like you – who can help us do that.’

Mrs Shirley wiggles herself up straight, fiddling with the chain on her thick-rimmed spectacles.

‘Do you think they are criminals?’

‘I never said that. What I mean is the police can’t be everywhere all the time. We need the public’s help in spotting anything they think isn’t quite right.’

‘What do you need us to do, dear?’

‘Do you have a notebook?’

‘You could use that one Jane bought me for Christmas,’ Mrs Shirley says to her husband, her eyes gleaming like the well-polished carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I knew we’d find a use for it.’

‘Jot down a brief description of who knocks and how long they spend there. Make sure you note dates and times. And if they come by car, write down their number plate too.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any CCTV installed at the property?’ Rob asks.

They both shake their heads. ‘Our son, Philip, he’s been saying for a long time that we should,’ Mrs Shirley says, ‘but we’ve never got around to it. Seems a lot of bother.’

‘Your son is right. It could substantiate your suspicions. It’s a good deterrent, if anything.’

‘He hasn’t worked for a while.’

‘Who, your son?’

‘No, Jason Harper. He used to drive off every morning about seven. Dressed in a suit and tie, real smart like. Gone right downhill, he has – lost a lot of weight, wears scruffy clothes. His mum told me he lost his job.’

‘Do you know his mum well?’

‘Not really. She keeps herself to herself. She’s polite enough, says good morning and that, but whenever I try and start a conversation, she always says, “I must dash.” I sometimes see her up at Asda. She works there, behind the cold meat counter, but she always says she’s too busy to talk then, too. Even when she’s not serving customers, she has all sorts to do out the back.’

‘I understand you saw him with a firearm?’ I say.

‘What do you mean, dear?’