COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

some useful stuff too. He’d furnished his home with the proceeds of his petty theft. A new-ish sleeping bag lay in one corner, now stained with piss and vomit, and a barbeque that used to be attached to the stern of a yacht was in the other. He loved shiny objects and often added to his collection of “treasures” — jewellery and trinkets he would pull out and croon over, Fagin-like, when he was high or drunk. A pile of empty food containers and booze bottles were piled up against the wall, next to an old bucket that served as his toilet if he was too far gone to shit outside.

In his more lucid moments, he disgusted himself.

But today was a celebration. A new start. Soon those bastards would all be fuckin’—

The man stiffened as an unfamiliar noise stopped his train of thought. He automatically crouched down on the floor, even though he was hidden from view. He’d heard a truck. It was near, he figured, right outside the fish plant. He heard a door bang, and then the sound of another vehicle, then another door and then voices.

Police? He didn’t think so. Those fuckers turned up with lights flashing. But he kept his crouched position and shuffled as near as he dared to the edge of the mezzanine, ready to make a run for it down the fire escape if he had to.

The main door creaked open and let in a streak of grey light. It was twilight outside, and all the man could see was the outline of two men. The door banged shut, the echo reverberating around the deserted warehouse. It was pitch black, and the man heard one voice exclaim in irritation. The door opened again, just a crack, to provide a little light.

The man couldn’t see faces, but he could make out the shapes of two men. The taller one looked familiar.

Outside, disturbed seagulls were crying, and the man edged forward a little more without being heard.

Information was currency. The man had profited from secrets before, so he strained to hear what the visitors were saying.

It was too muffled. The echoes from the high metal ceiling distorted the sounds, and the man only caught a few words, but he could see that they were arguing. The smaller man was gesturing and doing most of the talking.

It had only been a few seconds, but the man was starting to cramp. Not hearing anything useful and thinking he was best out of sight in his hidey hole, he started to crawl backwards, when he heard one of the men laugh. It wasn’t humorous, as though one of them had said something funny, it was a mocking laugh.

The door slammed again.

The man peered back over the edge. The door was shut tight, but the outline of the remaining visitor was still visible from cracks of light in the dilapidated roof.

The trill of a cell phone made the man jump, high up on the mezzanine, and he let out an involuntary gasp. Frightened that he may have given himself away, he waited and then nervously stuck his head out again.

He needn’t have worried.

The remaining visitor was intent on looking at his cell phone. The blue light from the screen lit up the visitor’s face, and the man immediately recognized him.

Congratulating himself, the man again started to slowly retreat, grinning in the darkness at this new morsel that he could maybe trade away.

He heard the creak of the door. He stopped. He was too far back now to have a full view, but he saw the blue glow of the cell phone wave back and forth. The visitor was startled.

“Wha—?” the man heard, and then a hard crack that echoed and bounced off the roof and wall, followed by a thud. The blue light tilted out of view and disappeared. The man heard the slithering sound of a dropped phone sliding into darkness.

He dared not move. He waited and waited, hearing only a few footsteps that stopped, and then started again, but going in the opposite direction. He heard the door creak and then silence.

The man waited again. No groaning or sounds of movement.

Carefully and quietly as possible, he went down the stairs onto the warehouse floor. His eyes were accustomed enough to the gloom to make out a heap on the floor. The metallic smell of blood mingled with shit told the man all he needed to know.

Not worried about noise now, but knowing that he had to hurry, he skirted around the dead body, not wanting to step in blood and leave footprints. He knelt and felt around the floor at the edge of the warehouse, in the last direction that he had seen the blue light.

It didn’t take long. He soon found the phone, which didn’t seem to be damaged, and shoved it in his back pocket. He quickly stumbled back up the stairs, adrenaline flowing, and stood for a second at the top, catching his breath. He badly wanted more vodka, but he knew that the last thing he needed was a blackout. He thought for a moment, and then gathered up the sleeping bag, the bottle of vodka, and his bag of treasures. He kicked around the empty bottles and garbage. For good measure, he tipped over the shit bucket and watched the putrid sludge seep over the floor.

Not many people would be examining the room too closely now, he figured.

He left, taking the back exit down the fire escape into the night, clutching his filthy possessions and shiny secrets close to his chest.

Chapter Eleven

Andi woke early. As she opened her eyes, the empty wine bottle came into focus first. Andi sighed. She had to stop doing this. She pulled herself out of bed, trying to remember the last time she’d got up feeling clear-headed and energetic.

She blinked