Hunting for Crows by Iain Cameron Read Free Book Online

here.’
    Some of his produce fell to the ground, small packets of powder, wrapped in cellophane and taped together. He kicked the packets in the direction of the dealer.
    ‘And you can take this load of shite with you.’
    ‘We are not finished yet,’ the dealer said. ‘He owes me money.’
    Derek turned to Eric Hannah and grabbed his arm in a strong grip.
    ‘Open it,’ he said.
    He opened his hand and Derek removed the four or five packets he was holding and threw them at the dealer.
    ‘There’s your stuff. Now clear off, he owes you nothing. C’mon Eric,’ he said taking hold of his arm, ‘we’ve got a soundcheck to do.’
    They turned and Derek pushed Eric up the alley. Seconds later, he heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw a blade coming towards him. He pulled back and the slash missed his face, but cut a slice through his favourite leather bomber jacket. His anger returned big style.
    The dealer squared up to him with an evil look in his eye as if he wanted to kill him. The guy sprang forward with a straight jab, which he side-stepped. As he passed to the side, Derek locked his big mitts together and brought them down on the back of the guy’s head, like wielding a two-handed axe. The druggy collapsed in a heap and dropped the knife. Derek kicked it away.
    The guy made to get up but before he could, Derek booted him in the balls and punched him in the face. He slumped down on the damp pavement, the blood from his face seeping into a small pool of rain, discolouring it.
    He turned to Eric. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’
    ‘Christ almighty, Derek,’ he said, his face like a five-year-old who had just dropped his sweets in the mud. ‘I was starting to like the guy.’
     

EIGHT
     
     
     
     
    It was early, not yet seven o’clock, when DI Henderson walked into Sussex House. After dumping his document case in his office, he entered the small kitchen at the side of the CID offices to make a coffee. Surprise, surprise DS Walters was standing there and not only had she cleaned out the coffee machine but it was bubbling away making a brew.
    ‘Morning sir, how are you today?’
    ‘Stunned is the best description. You’re more often than not tucked up in bed or looking like a half-shut knife at this time of the morning.’
    She busied herself trying to find clean mugs and testing the milk for freshness, not a job for the faint hearted. ‘Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.’
    ‘You don’t fool me, Ms Walters. There wouldn’t happen to be a new boyfriend on the scene?’
    ‘Could be.’
    ‘If there is a new boyfriend, doesn’t it mean the opposite, more late mornings because…’
    ‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘We’re still at the ‘getting to know you stage’, if you must know.’
    ‘What I was trying to say is, you might be needing more sleep as this liaison could involve you in more socialising with late nights and parties.’
    She gave him a sceptical look and handed him a mug. ‘No more speculation, I’ll tell you all about it when I’m ready.’
    A few minutes later they headed downstairs and into a small briefing room. The four heavily-kitted individuals allocated to this operation were already seated there and after introductions, Henderson walked to the front of the room.
    ‘The target this morning is this building here,’ Henderson said, pointing to the brightly lit screen behind him, currently displaying a photograph of a large warehouse. ‘This warehouse is located at the back of Potter Farm, a cereal farm two miles south of Burgess Hill. The farm and the warehouse are owned by a man called Tristan Hunt and we don’t know if he is involved, but we do know he rents the building to a Chinese businessman.’
    Henderson stopped to take a drink as his mouth was parched. The previous night he went out with his girlfriend, Rachel, for a curry in Hove and it must have contained more garlic than he realised.
    ‘We believe there is a cannabis nursery in this location for two