Paul Finch - The Incident at North Shore

She depressed the accelerator and veered away. On the face of it, it seemed a bit pointless parking elsewhere – what matter if they were one yard apart or a hundred? It would still be obvious they were here together. All she could do was park the Corsa out of sight, so she pulled up leeward of the derelict toilet block, hoping that it would mask her from the road. She switched the interior light on and briefly assessed her makeup in the sun-visor mirror. She was a good-looking girl and always had been. There was something of the feline about her: green eyes; delicate, diagonal brows; a small, sharp nose; pink lips. Whenever she took off her ridiculous uniform-hat and unpinned her black hair, it fell in a lush wave to her shoulders. Oh, she had lots going for her, except that she didn’t have Geoff Slater. Not totally. Not yet. And this was something they had to sort out tonight.

Checking she had her mobile and all her ‘appointments’ – her cuffs, baton, CS canister and torch – she climbed from the car, replaced her yellow ‘high visibility’ coat with a normal black anorak, and attached her radio to its lapel.

She locked the vehicle up, and walked around the toilet block towards the Toyota. It seemed odd that Slater wasn’t here, waiting for her. She reached his car and peeked inside; from the blipping red light on its dashboard, it had been secured properly.

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