The Devil's Breath (DCI Danny Flint Book 8) by Trevor Negus

Author:Trevor Negus [Negus, Trevor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkubator Books
Published: 2022-09-17T16:00:00+00:00

52

9.30pm, 15 May 1988

Hungerhill Road, St Ann’s, Nottingham

Nabin rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He looked again, and there it was, in black and white.

Thanks for getting in touch, Baby Doll.

I’m looking forward to hearing from you again, with details of our hot date.

Happy Chap.

He put the newspaper down on his bed and said in a croaky, emotion-filled whisper, ‘Finally, I have your attention.’

From the bedroom next door, he could hear his mother, Eashwari, crying. It was all she seemed to do these days. Ever since his father had been sectioned and put into the care of the Mapperley Hospital, his mother had found it difficult to cope.

It had been left to Nabin and his sister to run the family business, such as it was. If they had more than a dozen customers in the shop throughout opening hours, it was deemed to have been a good day. The corner shop that his father had purchased was now dying a slow death. Most of the stock on the shelves was rapidly becoming past its sell-by date, and there was no money left to restock. They could no longer afford to pay the hefty mortgage on the property. They only remained in the property under the terms of a six-month grace period afforded by the building society. That would soon expire, and the family would lose everything. They would be homeless and on the streets.

The message in the small ads was now his family’s only hope.

He had thought long and hard about this moment, but now that it had finally arrived, he felt hesitant about taking the next step. It was one thing to demand the money, but getting your hands on the cash and managing to evade the clutches of the police was something else entirely.

Nabin knew this would be the most dangerous part of the whole plan.

He closed his eyes and listened to his mother crying next door. As he concentrated on the sounds in the flat, he could now also hear the quieter sobbing of his younger sister. He thought about his once-proud father rocking back and forth on a chair in the ward of the mental hospital. An image of his father’s tortured face burst into his brain. He could see the anxiety behind his brown eyes, the deep furrows on his brow and the spittle running down his unshaven, unwashed chin.

He opened his eyes; he knew what he had to do.

He put on a pair of latex gloves and placed a sheet of A4 paper into the portable Olivetti typewriter. Using his two index fingers, he began to type another letter to the Valumart head office.

Within the letter, he gave details of the way the money was to be delivered to the drop. He maintained his demand of half a million pounds, stating the money was to be made up of unmarked twenty-pound notes. The cash was to be packed carefully into a very specific type of bag.

He typed in the

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