For the Sake of the Children: The first Chloe Webster thriller (Chloe Webster Thrillers Book 1) by Alex Highcliffe Page B
Authors: Alex Highcliffe
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left open for him. The occasional house was obviously empty and he made his way up the driveways, turning back the moment a security light blazed down from above.
As he continued his search, the houses became noticeably smaller and less grand, and therefore generally less secure. He started to think he might have some success in this area. Still he tried car doors but nothing was giving tonight, despite his perseverance.
Come on someone, I only want to borrow it.
A car drifted past and pulled into the side of the road some way in front of him, at the end of a row of parked cars. A woman climbed out gingerly and headed back towards him on the pavement. As she approached he could see that she was limping quite heavily, and it was seemingly a real effort for her to move. She wasn’t a young woman, and was well wrapped in a thick winter coat, her hat pulled down against the hard cold of the night. The Timer moved his hand across his forehead as they passed so as to obscure his face, not that there was much chance of her recognising him later; it was dark, and he was passed her in a flash. But he noticed her , and in particular he noticed the letter she was carrying. She’d left her car engine running and he knew this was his opportunity.
It wouldn’t have been his first choice, an ageing Volkswagen Golf, in a nondescript dark colour with noticeable dents in the rear panel. Nothing glamorous about that, but it would be reliable, and fairly comfortable no doubt. Something Jez had said to him came back into his head – you’ll probably want a boot, you know a saloon. Well he’d found a hatchback, and that would have to do. Why would he need a boot? If it was about the size of the shipment, then surely a hatchback would be more suitable. Besides, he’d spent enough time out here in the cold and with the car’s engine running it would at least be warm. He certainly wasn’t going to come across an easier opportunity. In fact, he couldn’t really think of a more inviting scenario than this one.
He settled into the driver’s seat and looked in the mirror, closing the door gently next to him.
Poor old dear, she’s not even reached the post box yet.
A slight pang of guilt nagged at him as the woman staggered up to the bright red structure and leaned on it while she caught her breath. She slid the letter inside and waited there, no doubt preparing herself for the walk back to the car. The Timer decided not to wait around to see her take in the realisation of what was happening, and he pushed the accelerator hard against the floor. A few wheel spins later he was on his way.
He’d been lucky there, but his timing, as ever, was immaculate. 20:05. He had plenty of time to get to the M62 motorway and find that truck.
38
The drive out of Sheffield was relaxing, helped by the calm classical music which gently filled the car, and drowned out the monotonous sound of the engine. The roads were clear now, the great rush home from work having finished a couple of hours ago for most people. He thought about the job in hand. It would certainly not be easy to pick a truck’s number plate out of the darkness on the other side of a motorway, especially when moving at speed in the opposite direction. There must be a more effective way of doing it.
He let the music fill his mind as he planned his approach. This part of the motorway network was familiar to him and he knew there must be a better way. He considered the police car speed checkpoints along the edge of the motorway. He could park up on one of the ramps and wait for the truck to come past. But he discounted that idea quickly; he’d have some explaining to do if the police caught him on one of those checkpoints. They may even be covered by cameras.
Then it came to him. He would find a junction with a roundabout above the motorway and park up there. That would give him a clear view down onto the road and he would be able to check the
As he continued his search, the houses became noticeably smaller and less grand, and therefore generally less secure. He started to think he might have some success in this area. Still he tried car doors but nothing was giving tonight, despite his perseverance.
Come on someone, I only want to borrow it.
A car drifted past and pulled into the side of the road some way in front of him, at the end of a row of parked cars. A woman climbed out gingerly and headed back towards him on the pavement. As she approached he could see that she was limping quite heavily, and it was seemingly a real effort for her to move. She wasn’t a young woman, and was well wrapped in a thick winter coat, her hat pulled down against the hard cold of the night. The Timer moved his hand across his forehead as they passed so as to obscure his face, not that there was much chance of her recognising him later; it was dark, and he was passed her in a flash. But he noticed her , and in particular he noticed the letter she was carrying. She’d left her car engine running and he knew this was his opportunity.
It wouldn’t have been his first choice, an ageing Volkswagen Golf, in a nondescript dark colour with noticeable dents in the rear panel. Nothing glamorous about that, but it would be reliable, and fairly comfortable no doubt. Something Jez had said to him came back into his head – you’ll probably want a boot, you know a saloon. Well he’d found a hatchback, and that would have to do. Why would he need a boot? If it was about the size of the shipment, then surely a hatchback would be more suitable. Besides, he’d spent enough time out here in the cold and with the car’s engine running it would at least be warm. He certainly wasn’t going to come across an easier opportunity. In fact, he couldn’t really think of a more inviting scenario than this one.
He settled into the driver’s seat and looked in the mirror, closing the door gently next to him.
Poor old dear, she’s not even reached the post box yet.
A slight pang of guilt nagged at him as the woman staggered up to the bright red structure and leaned on it while she caught her breath. She slid the letter inside and waited there, no doubt preparing herself for the walk back to the car. The Timer decided not to wait around to see her take in the realisation of what was happening, and he pushed the accelerator hard against the floor. A few wheel spins later he was on his way.
He’d been lucky there, but his timing, as ever, was immaculate. 20:05. He had plenty of time to get to the M62 motorway and find that truck.
38
The drive out of Sheffield was relaxing, helped by the calm classical music which gently filled the car, and drowned out the monotonous sound of the engine. The roads were clear now, the great rush home from work having finished a couple of hours ago for most people. He thought about the job in hand. It would certainly not be easy to pick a truck’s number plate out of the darkness on the other side of a motorway, especially when moving at speed in the opposite direction. There must be a more effective way of doing it.
He let the music fill his mind as he planned his approach. This part of the motorway network was familiar to him and he knew there must be a better way. He considered the police car speed checkpoints along the edge of the motorway. He could park up on one of the ramps and wait for the truck to come past. But he discounted that idea quickly; he’d have some explaining to do if the police caught him on one of those checkpoints. They may even be covered by cameras.
Then it came to him. He would find a junction with a roundabout above the motorway and park up there. That would give him a clear view down onto the road and he would be able to check the
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