his staff arrived before asking how they had fared the day before in finding the war medal thief. With a dirty brown mug in hand, he walked slowly from the Fishbowl into the main office. Georgie G was madly typing at his desk as a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. “Well, Detective, how did we go yesterday? I checked the charge book this morning and I don’t see our thief in it.”
Georgie G stopped typing and turned to face him. “Well, boss, we went to most of the local pawnshops and gave them a twist, no luck, nothing.”
He gave Georgie G a friendly pat on the back and looked over at Hobbs who smiled. Randall knew Hobbs had something by this look. Winking at Hobbs, Randall continued, “Oh well, Georgie, can’t say we haven’t tried, can we?” Georgie G looked puzzled; he knew Randall did not give up that easy. He watched him walk around to Hobbs on the other side of the table. “And you, big guy, any luck?”
“Might have , boss.”
“Well , let’s hear it, Gulliver,” Randall joked, sipping on his coffee.
“ I spoke to one of my informants and he says the pawnshop in Bexley is well known for taking medals from crooks.”
“Mmm, sounds like a possibility, and it’s not too far away,” he said, combing his moustache with his index finger and thumb. “Sounds like we need to pay them a visit. I could do with a little fresh air, anyway.”
Ra ndall returned to his office, pulled his jacket from the chair and swung it over his shoulder. After taking a last swill of his coffee, he sucked the residual from his moustache and called out loudly, “Lead the way, Detective. Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 10 – SHOW US YOUR METTLE
The Ace Pawnshop was a comfortable fifteen-minute drive out of the Ashfield patrol. Reaching their destination, Hobbs pulled into a convenient parking spot directly outside the pawnshop. As he pulled in towards the kerb he hit the gutter and rode along it making a loud screeching noise. Randall looked at him without expression. “Good one, Hobbs. That’s why I usually drive. The pawnbroker’s probably in there pissing himself laughing now.”
Once out of the car , Randall looked at the rundown building from which the business operated. The paint on the old awning was peeling, making the business name illegible. As he walked towards the entry door, he saw a long crack in the front display window. On closer inspection, he could see it had been repaired with a clear adhesive tape. Judging by its yellow, peeling appearance it had been applied as a permanent fix. To further enhance the look of the jewellery on display, there was a large sheet of rusted steel mesh reinforcing inside the window, serving as a deterrent for both thief and prospective shopper. A faded secondhand dealer’s license hung in the front window: Mr. Frederick Kennedy, Secondhand Dealer. This was the right place, and Fred was the right man.
Hobbs purposefully pushed the front door open, which jingled a small bell as they entered. They negotiated their way through the clutter of musical instruments, computers, sporting goods, electrical items and power tools scattered all over the carpeted floor. They walked single file towards a short, solid, balding man behind the counter. Just before he reached the counter Randall smelt a damp, musty smell. Looking up at the ceiling he saw the cause, through two large circular stains that had flaked the paint. “Nasty leak,” he said, looking up at the roof.
The man looked over his reading glasses. “Yeah, the building owner won’t fix it; he charges me a fortune in rent too. Anyhow, how can I help you guys? If you’re here to check my books, they were done the other day and everything was sweet.”
“No, I’m not interested in your books. I’m Detective Sergeant Randall and this is Detective Hobbs from Ashfield patrol,” Randall said, flicking open his police identification.
“You’re a long way from home. ”
“ You’re the business owner Fred Kennedy, is
Georgie G stopped typing and turned to face him. “Well, boss, we went to most of the local pawnshops and gave them a twist, no luck, nothing.”
He gave Georgie G a friendly pat on the back and looked over at Hobbs who smiled. Randall knew Hobbs had something by this look. Winking at Hobbs, Randall continued, “Oh well, Georgie, can’t say we haven’t tried, can we?” Georgie G looked puzzled; he knew Randall did not give up that easy. He watched him walk around to Hobbs on the other side of the table. “And you, big guy, any luck?”
“Might have , boss.”
“Well , let’s hear it, Gulliver,” Randall joked, sipping on his coffee.
“ I spoke to one of my informants and he says the pawnshop in Bexley is well known for taking medals from crooks.”
“Mmm, sounds like a possibility, and it’s not too far away,” he said, combing his moustache with his index finger and thumb. “Sounds like we need to pay them a visit. I could do with a little fresh air, anyway.”
Ra ndall returned to his office, pulled his jacket from the chair and swung it over his shoulder. After taking a last swill of his coffee, he sucked the residual from his moustache and called out loudly, “Lead the way, Detective. Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 10 – SHOW US YOUR METTLE
The Ace Pawnshop was a comfortable fifteen-minute drive out of the Ashfield patrol. Reaching their destination, Hobbs pulled into a convenient parking spot directly outside the pawnshop. As he pulled in towards the kerb he hit the gutter and rode along it making a loud screeching noise. Randall looked at him without expression. “Good one, Hobbs. That’s why I usually drive. The pawnbroker’s probably in there pissing himself laughing now.”
Once out of the car , Randall looked at the rundown building from which the business operated. The paint on the old awning was peeling, making the business name illegible. As he walked towards the entry door, he saw a long crack in the front display window. On closer inspection, he could see it had been repaired with a clear adhesive tape. Judging by its yellow, peeling appearance it had been applied as a permanent fix. To further enhance the look of the jewellery on display, there was a large sheet of rusted steel mesh reinforcing inside the window, serving as a deterrent for both thief and prospective shopper. A faded secondhand dealer’s license hung in the front window: Mr. Frederick Kennedy, Secondhand Dealer. This was the right place, and Fred was the right man.
Hobbs purposefully pushed the front door open, which jingled a small bell as they entered. They negotiated their way through the clutter of musical instruments, computers, sporting goods, electrical items and power tools scattered all over the carpeted floor. They walked single file towards a short, solid, balding man behind the counter. Just before he reached the counter Randall smelt a damp, musty smell. Looking up at the ceiling he saw the cause, through two large circular stains that had flaked the paint. “Nasty leak,” he said, looking up at the roof.
The man looked over his reading glasses. “Yeah, the building owner won’t fix it; he charges me a fortune in rent too. Anyhow, how can I help you guys? If you’re here to check my books, they were done the other day and everything was sweet.”
“No, I’m not interested in your books. I’m Detective Sergeant Randall and this is Detective Hobbs from Ashfield patrol,” Randall said, flicking open his police identification.
“You’re a long way from home. ”
“ You’re the business owner Fred Kennedy, is
Similar Books
