Read Big City Jacks for Free Online

loose.
    He glanced over his shoulder. No one was there. He was approaching the end of the street. No pause. He ran across the junction, dimly aware of blue lights and police activity down the main road to his left, near the town centre. He pushed on in the direction of the sea, the blue sports bag on his back, bouncing and banging against his spine, his arms threaded through the straps, the shotgun in his right hand.
    Another glance. Still clear.
    Snell was finding it harder to catch his breath now, but he knew he had to keep going. He urged himself on, motivated by two men with guns, keeping to the darkness of the building line until he broke cover on the promenade, where he stopped . . . and almost toppled over.
    But there was no time to think.
    He veered right, heading north, now keenly aware that he was under the bright street lights of the sea-front. An easy target. He needed to return to the safety of darkness. He spun next right, back inland, now suffering, hardly able to keep going. At the first alleyway on the right he turned in and slumped down in the recess of a doorway. His breath came in painful rasps.
    Had he done enough to save himself again?
    Snell took a minute to calm down, easing his arms out of the straps on the sports bag, placing the shotgun carefully on the ground.
    Eventually his body returned to almost normal. He stood up and stepped out of the doorway, bag in one hand, shotgun in the other.
    Time to steal another car.
    â€˜Keith . . . Keith Snell!’ Lynch’s voice came ominously from behind.
    Snell felt his whole body contract on those words.
    â€˜Drop the gun.’
    It clattered from his fingers.
    â€˜And the bag.’
    It landed with a dull thud.
    Snell began to rotate slowly.
    â€˜No need to move, Keith my boy.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Snell gasped. ‘I’ve been a fool.’
    â€˜Trouble is,’ said Lynch, ‘when you realize that, it’s just too late. Well anyway, it’s all over now. No more need to run.’
    The way in which Lynch raised the revolver in his right hand, supported it in the palm of his left, and double-tapped two bullets into Keith Snell’s back was almost casual.

Three
    T here was nothing special or remarkable about the murder, other than the fact that all murders are special and remarkable to those affected by them. A man and wife. A silly drunken row about nothing which escalated into violence and then a brutal stabbing. Just another something that happened every day that was impossible to prevent but easy to detect. In police terms, a ‘one for one’.
    The only thing about it was that tonight it happened in the sleepy backwater town of Bacup in the Rossendale Valley, tucked away high on the hills in the very eastern corner of the county of Lancashire. God’s country, some say; others would be less enthusiastic about it.
    Following the procedures laid down for such occurrences, the duty police inspector ensured that the scene of the crime was dealt with professionally, as well as the arrest of the offender, then informed the on-call Senior Investigating Officer (SIO), who, at the moment of the phone call, was playing a game of late-night chess with his eldest daughter, Jenny, whilst the rest of the family, mother and daughter number two, were tucked up in bed.
    Instinctively, and before picking up the phone, the SIO – Henry Christie – checked the time and made a mental note of it. Times could end up being crucial to an investigation and several investigations that he knew of had rocked because of disputes over them.
    Henry knew the call would be for him and a frisson of excitement tremored through his whole being. He cleared his throat, announced his name, then, ‘Can I help?’
    â€˜Henry, sorry to bother you. This is John Catlow over in Pennine Division.’
    â€˜Hello, John.’ Henry knew Catlow and also knew that he was the uniformed night duty inspector in the huge division