Pain has a Permanent Address
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Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
pain has a permanent address. A John handful novel number four. The John Handful Mysteries by Andrew Hinkston Read by Michael Sharp, Chapter one. The moment I saw the female police constable standing outside my office, I should have turned around and walked the other way. I can see that now. I should have said, Please send my apologies to the detective inspector, but I'm busy working on another case. But as usual, my curiosity got the better of me on. Once I saw the crime scene and her the background, I was hooked. The female constable in question was mentally, softly. She was never the most social person which might have had something to do with her low regard for people in general and her even lower torrents of them. She had been married briefly, but now her parents looked after her young son while she worked. She didn't hide her bisexuality, but it wasn't a topic. Shields interested in talking about. I suspected she'd had women in her life. She cared for now. She focused on her child and work. She waited for me outside my office in the town centre in her uniform, drawing inquisitive glances from passes Bye. I followed her to a marked police car and we took the Coast Road before turning off ox market, creating where we were metal. A crossroads by Sergeant Patrick Higgins on a motorcycle. We followed him down a twisting secondary road. The forest stretched all around. The branches hung mournful, heavy with damp. In the grey morning around the bend, we came to a row of parked vehicles. Two cars and a van. Higgins stopped and dismounted while softly and I got out. Morning, John Higgins removed his helmet. Give me his usual derisive grin. Morning, Pat. What's all this about? His grin widened. Walk this way and I'll show you. A sandstone arch marked the entrance to the forest. A sign post pointed out several walking trails. The red trail took an hour and covered approximately two miles. The purple was shorter, but it took in an Iron Age fort. The forest will near the edge of the cliff, on the sound of breaking waves and breeze. Rusting for trees was exhilarating. Foreign leaves were piled like snow drifts along the ditches, and the breeze had shaken droplets from the branches. The area was ancient forest land rich, damp, earth, rotting bowls and mould. A collection of smells now and again between the tree, the distance, a railing fence mark, the cliff edge above and beyond it, the North Sea and all its raging glory. Breezing past Higgins, I left the footbath and climbed up a small slope at the top of the ridge. Three tree settle, and all that provided an uninterrupted view of ox market. I knelt on the grass and felt the early morning witness soak for my trousers. The path was visible for 100 yards in either direction during my time with the security services, terrorist cells often bury arms caches in open countryside, using line of sight between three landmarks to hide the weapons in the middle of fields. With nothing on the service to mark this spot searching for such caches, I'd learn how to study the landscape, picking out the features that caught the eye. It might be a different coloured tree or a mound of stones or a leading fence post. In a sense, I was doing the same thing, looking for reference points or psychological markers. Some crimes are a coincidence, a coming together of circumstances, a few minutes or a few yards one way or the other on the crime might not have happened. This one was different.