Friday Feeling (3/8) By Nick Quantrill

(1/8), (2/8), (3/8), (4/8), (5/8), (6/8), (7/8), (8/8).

Friday 4.30pm Maynard threw his car keys on to his desk and ignored the flashing light on his telephone. He rubbed his eyes and thought about the weekend. Although he was tired, he was looking forward to going home to see his girlfriend, Melanie. They would be celebrating her passing her latest accountancy exams. 'Any luck?' asked Coleman, sitting up right in his chair. ''I didn't see you there. Were you having a kip, or something?' 'Not far off. Roll on clocking off time. I'm knackered.'

'Me too' said Maynard stretching. 'I reckon I could sleep the weekend away, the way that I feel.'

'So, what did you find out? It must have been more interesting than analysing car-crime data. I reckon that I'm narrowing it down a bit though, and I'll have somebody in the frame before too much longer.' 'Let's hope so. No doubt it'll be one of the regulars. Anyway, the suspicious death isn't looking too exciting at the moment, most likely an overdose.' 'Not that surprising, I suppose.' 'No' replied Maynard as he scanned his emails; just the usual collection of internal jokes that were doing the rounds.

As is the norm, they ranged from the occasionally hilarious to the frequently poor. He swivelled around in his chair to face Coleman. 'The armed robbery was interesting, though.' 'How's that?' 'I can't quite put my finger on it. The old boy that runs the shop, Eddie Young, couldn't give a shit that he'd just had a shotgun pointed at him and it looks like there is precious little evidence to follow up. No witnesses, limited CCTV, no fingerprints. No nothing really.'

'Maybe the kids who pulled the job just got lucky?' 'But it just doesn't happen like that, does it?' 'Probably not,' sighed Coleman. 'What do you think happened?'

'Well, it looks like a dying shop. In fact, the owner said he'd had enough and was closing down and selling up. He couldn't handle the kids who rampage through the shop anymore and he can't compete with the supermarkets.' 'He's probably right. I filled my trolley with special offers this week. I must be saving a fortune shopping at Asda.' 'That's fair enough, but put yourself in his shoes. His livelihood has gone. He can't compete with such places. What can you do?' 'What are you suggesting?' asked Coleman, more interested in where the conversation was going.

'It just all seems too neat to me. I reckon he set it up and is using the money to kick-start his retirement.' 'How much did they take?' 'Four grand, give or take. He hadn't been to the bank all week.' 'A tidy sum of money, the problem is though, you'll never prove it,' said Coleman dismissively. 'Why not?' 'For a start, you've got no witnesses and no forensics. Plus, nobody's really being hurt have they? Fair enough, a crime has been committed, but it is it the sort of crime that the DI will want us to be spending our time on?

Assuming that it was an inside job and we don't bring any charges, it's going to be the insurance company that picks up the tab, right?'

Continued... Next Page (4/8)

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