Who murdered Sandra Wilkinson.
The workshop was in darkness when I arrived which was strange because Eddie usually left the lights on to deter anyone breaking in. I stopped outside the double doors at the rear got off my bike removed my helmet and walked to the doors to unlock them but the padlock was missing, one of the doors was slightly open, I banged on the door.
“Eddie, are you there? It’s me Steve” I shouted.
There was no reply. I heard someone moving around inside so I push both doors open wide to let the light from my bikes headlamp shine in. I could see Eddie’s Enfield stood over by the far wall. A crow bar lay on the ground just inside the doors so I bent down and picked it up, thinking that if it was a break in then I could use it to defend myself.
“Eddie” I shouted again, fumbling for the length of string that hung from switch that was just inside the doors.
The fluorescent lights flicked a few times before bursting into full light, at that moment I felt a terrific pain go through the side of my head and everything went black.
Available in Paperback Lulu.com
Available for Sony Reader, Kindle, Palm Reading Devices, Epub for Stanza Reader and others at Smashwords
Available in paperback and Amazon Kindle Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com
ISBN: 978-1-4457-4942-6
Town End Cafe, aka Club 77 was not a club as such, in fact it wasn’t a club at all; but a back street cafe in a Yorkshire mining town.
The 77 came from the address of the cafe ‘No77’, the club was actually a gang of young teenagers who rode motorcycles and dressed the same, leather jackets, ice blue denim jeans, motorcycle boots with white fisherman’s socks turned down over the tops and white crash helmets with the number 77 on each side, this was how we identified ourselves as members.
We met at the cafe most afternoons, evenings and weekends, not to do anything special, just to hang around and brag about girls and bikes.
The cafe was a rundown back street place that far out of the town centre that shoppers didn’t venture near it.
The table and chairs had all seen better days, they had all been damaged at some time, even patched up and repaired they still bared the scars of many an inconsiderate customer, especially us.
In one corner stood an old jukebox, the glass dome on the top was cracked and if you leaned too heavily on it the record would skip and jump. Next to the jukebox stood a pinball machine that couldn’t count, no matter how much you flipped the ball the score never went over more than 10,000 before it started counting backwards back down to zero, the skill with that thing was just being able to keep the ball in play, the flippers only worked by giving them one hell of a bang which usually ended up with the machine going ‘Tilt’ and the player losing their game and money.
