Falling More Slowly ilm-1

by Peter Helton

  Some murmurs and groans. The public — and the press — saw the so-called Mobile Muggers as the main menace in the city. Until today perhaps. Chasing them down to get them off the Evening Post’s front page had until now been one of the superintendent’s pet projects.

  ‘That’s why even overqualified detectives like DI Fairfield will be joining in the house-to-house effort to bring in as many witness statements as possible by the end of the day.’ A curt nod from Fairfield, a hard stare from her DS. ‘Anything to do with explosions will naturally attract the attentions of the Combined Anti-Terrorism people. Several of them may even as I speak be riding west to pay us a visit.’ Groans. ‘The super feels it would be nice to have something to show our visitors, specifically evidence of our competence, brilliance, efficiency and, I’m sure, cost effectiveness.’ Boos and ironic cheers. ‘Any questions?’

  Only a few hands went up, everyone wanted to get going. He dealt swiftly with the questions then dismissed his troops. ‘Right, let’s do it.’

  Shuffling of papers. The team were getting ready, most to go out, a few to start sifting through the witness statements already taken.

  The relief of having started work began to relax his shoulders. He shook a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, mainly to dampen his hunger. That Danish was a distant memory to his stomach.

  ‘Sir?’ It was Sorbie, standing by the exit door.

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘It’s no smoking in here, sir.’

  He grunted an acknowledgement and went to stand outside, watching the detectives troop off, Sorbie and DI Fairfield among them. There’d been no time to talk to the inspector. If she felt resentful about a newcomer of identical rank and seniority being put in charge then she hid it well. Fairfield seemed the efficient type. Very smartly dressed and almost too good-looking for a detective. He wasn’t sure himself what he meant by that but wondered how suspects reacted, most of them young and male, in the interview room, for instance.

  At least it had stopped raining for a bit. Austin joined him. ‘Couldn’t scrounge another cigarette, sir, could I?’

  McLusky obliged. ‘If you’re going to keep smoking my cigarettes you might as well call me by my name. I’m Liam.’

  ‘I’m Jane.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Well, it’s James Austin, so everyone calls me Jane.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not really. Bit late for that anyway. She lived just down the road in Bath, did you know that?’

  ‘Did she?’

  Austin nodded. ‘She hated it. Too pretentious, too noisy.’

  Too noisy. McLusky reckoned here in the park the police made all the noise. Calls, engines, doors slamming, the growls of so-called low-noise generators. ‘It’s beginning to look like a bloody film set out there.’

  It was a gloomy day so arc lights had already been set up to make sure crime scene investigators and Forensics didn’t miss anything. This side of the park was out of bounds to the public now, entrances closed off. Lines of uniformed police were doing a fingertip search of the surrounding area. Every bit of debris, down to the smallest wood splinter, was being recovered. A photographer with a large video camera took endless shots of the scene, the surroundings, the entire operation. Press photographers had managed to scramble up through the undergrowth to get as close as possible to the locus of the explosion. They were popping off so much flash photography towards the scene that investigators had to avert their eyes in order to avoid being temporarily blinded. When their protests fell on deaf ears they complained to McLusky.

  He sent Austin. ‘Go sort them out.’ The DS sauntered over, then at the top of his voice threatened to arrest ‘the next idiot using a flash for obstructing the investigation’. McLusky approved. He hated the press. Unless he could use them for his own ends, of course.

  The chief investigator repaid them five minutes later.

  McLusky flicked his cigarette into a puddle. ‘What have you got for us?’

  The white-suited man twitched his blond moustache. He probably thought he was smiling. ‘It was a bomb, homemade. We can’t say for sure what type of explosive was used, we’ll leave that to Forensics, though I have my own theory. What I can tell you gentlemen is that the explosive material was probably housed in a thin metal canister.’ He held up an evidence bag containing a triangular piece of torn metal. ‘It’s a bit of a miracle that apart from the boy no one else was injured by the shrapnel but then it’s quite flimsy stuff. Are you a drinking man, inspector? Does this look at all familiar?’

  McLusky took it off him and leant back, angling it into the light coming from inside the command unit. Despite the slight blistering he could still make out the embossed writing, Special Reserve and Aged 12 years. The type of metal canister single malts came in. He half-closed his eyes, visualizing the bottle. ‘That’ll be Glenfiddich. I prefer the Ancient Reserve myself.’

  ‘You’re a connoisseur, then?’ Austin squinted at the bag.

  ‘Not on my salary.’ McLusky handed it back. ‘Thanks for the preview.’

  ‘No sweat.’ The man left to rejoin the group of CSI technicians working the area.

  ‘The public’s new heroes, apparently.’ Austin nodded towards the white-suited army.

  ‘What, crime scene techies?’

  ‘So it would appear. American TV series. All you have to do, apparently, is run that bit of tin through the lab and they’ll tell you where it was bought, what the perp has for breakfast and whether he takes water with it. Then you wash it through the computer and it’ll spit out his address. You haven’t seen it either? I can’t get Channel Five.’

  ‘I haven’t got a telly.’

  ‘Blimey, that’s radical.’

  ‘Hardly.’ It was probably just another of those things he’d forgotten to get, like a wife and kids and a group of close friends he could ask round for supper. He did have friends of course but they fell into one of two categories: they were either drinking friends or colleagues and former colleagues. Both those categories he had now left behind in Southampton and he didn’t expect any of them to come and find him. Tabula rasa. He could start over.

  Witness statements had been taken and were now being collated in the office inside the command vehicle where for the time being all information came together. House-to-house inquiries were being made at every property that overlooked the park on this side.

  ‘All right, Jane, so what are we looking at here? Terrorists? Kids? A crank?’

  Austin rocked lightly from side to side, making himself comfortable on his feet. ‘Not sure what I think. It could have been a schoolkid prank that went wrong. It was one hell of a bang. Kids do hang out here, though not so much after dark now since the Mobile Muggers have struck here twice.’

  ‘Could well be kids. It’s the kind of stupid thing they would blow up.’

  ‘I can’t see the terrorist angle at all. It wasn’t a big enough explosion for that. And there weren’t enough people around. You’d leave it in a crowded place, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘And you’d spike it with nails to do as much harm as possible.’

  ‘Then there’s always the crank with a grudge against … gazebos?’

  ‘Yes, quite. What do we know about the boy who was hurt? Could he have been the one who planted it, only it went off too soon, injuring him in the process? Not forgetting the woman. Stands to reason that the two people who got hurt most were probably closest to the centre of the explosion. We don’t know yet how the bomb was triggered but if it was by remote control for instance then they might of course have been the bomber’s targets. Do we have any news on their recovery or otherwise?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ Austin disappeared inside. McLusky took the opportunity to count his cigarettes. Not enough to get him through the rest of the day. He didn’t mind sharing his cigarettes around as long as there were enough of them. Almost without his participation in the process another one appeared between his lips, flaring as he touched the flame
from his plastic lighter to it. He walked across the street towards the wet, steaming heap of debris, still being attended by the army of white-suited technicians. The press had given up and returned to their offices, no doubt to fill in the gaps in their knowledge with column inches of speculation. Were he to write the front-page article it would run something like this: At 11.20 a.m. today an explosive device detonated inside a wooden shelter in Brandon Hill Nature Park, destroying it completely. Several passers-by were injured. The identity and motive of the bomber(s) are unknown. End of transmission.

  Now it was up to him to provide the rest of the copy. With an incident like this you hoped for a witness and prayed that Forensics came up with something useful, however small. The problem was, forensic laboratories all over the world were stretched beyond endurance. The backlog of items to be examined and analysed was now so great that a simple blood or DNA sample took several weeks to come back. If it was urgent it seemed longer. Even then the most you could usually hope for was another person eliminated from your list of suspects.

  Austin reappeared by his side with a scrap of paper filled with his swirly handwriting. ‘Good news and not so good news. Uniform went to Colin Keale’s place. According to the upstairs neighbour he’s on holiday in Marmaris. That’s in Turkey.’

  ‘Yeah, I know where it is. We need it confirmed and we need to know when he left.’

  ‘He left yesterday, apparently, so that’s him out.’

  ‘Is it hell. The bomb could have been sitting there for days. I want to know exactly when and where he left the country and when he’s coming back. Do we know that?’

  ‘Not yet, someone’s checking it out for me.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The woman who got hurt, an Elizabeth Howe, remains unconscious though they’re not sure why. No fractured skull as they first thought but she has damage to both eardrums, hence the bleeding, and probably won’t be listening to any questions for a bit even if she does wake up. The boy, a Joel Kerswill, had a metal splinter removed from his right eye. They managed to save his eyesight. They’re keeping him in for observation too but we might get a couple of minutes with him.’

  McLusky glanced at his watch. The afternoon had drained away. ‘All right, we’ll have a chat with him then.’

  ‘There’s sandwiches now, by the way, if you want. You’ll have to hurry, though, they’re like animals in there.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, I don’t eat triangular food.’ Everyone seemed to define themselves by what they didn’t eat these days, no dairy, no wheat, no carbs, no meat, so why should he feel left out?

  ‘I see. A geometrical diet.’

  ‘Indeed. I prefer a square meal.’

  Austin groaned. A constable approached them. ‘DI McLusky?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Sign this, please.’ He handed over a limp form, A4, folded in half.

  ‘Got a pen? What am I signing?’

  ‘I haven’t, sir. It’s your transport.’ He dangled a set of keys.

  ‘Oh good. Got a pen, Austin?’

  ‘I have. It’s in your inside pocket.’

  ‘Genius.’ McLusky signed and returned the pen to his jacket and the form to the constable. ‘What is it, anyway?’

  ‘VW. There’s also a message from the superintendent.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  The constable looked doubtful. ‘He told me to say “space hopper”, sir.’

  ‘Right, thank you, constable. Oh, hang on, where’s it parked?’

  ‘Right at the end there, behind the Forensics unit. It’s a white one.’

  ‘Things are looking up, Austin.’ He jangled the keys. ‘Sod sandwiches, lead me to the nearest fish and chip shop. No, lead me to the best fish and chip shop in the city. Afterwards we’ll visit Joel Kerswill in hospital.’

  The street was crowded. Every parked car had to be examined, every owner found and interviewed. Just as the last of the fire engines departed, leaving behind the senior fire officer and one fire investigator, two new cars arrived. The first to park was the superintendent’s large grey Ford. Not bothering to find a parking space at all was the driver of the dark BMW3 series that had followed him here. He stopped in the middle of the road and left it there. Driver and passenger debarked. Sharp suits and cropped hair. Both put on identical grey overcoats. Special Branch or MI5. No matter who they were, McLusky could practically feel himself become invisible. Denkhaus led them straight over. Before the superintendent could make introductions the younger of the two men stretched out his hand. McLusky shook it.

  ‘My name is Kelper, I’ll be taking over. You can go now.’ He nodded at both of them, then turned his back.

  Denkhaus led the new arrivals away, gesturing expansively at the command unit. ‘This way. Allow me.’

  McLusky offered Austin one of his cigarettes and lit one for himself. ‘And there we have it, a bloodless coup. Well, it was lonely at the top anyway. Let’s go, Jane.’

  ‘That was damn quick.’ Austin consulted his watch. ‘Especially if they drove up from London.’

  ‘Oh, I have a feeling Kelper doesn’t waste time on motorways. I’m sure he took a plane and had the Beemer waiting for him. Tonight he’ll dine with the super and by this time tomorrow he’ll be eating rectangular food on the plane home, having effectively put the investigation back a whole … Fuck me, our super’s got a sense of humour.’ They had arrived behind the Forensics van where the constable had hidden McLusky’s new transport. It was a little dirty-white car that had been in the police force a lot longer than he had. An appreciative member of the public had scratched PIGS in large angular letters across the bonnet. The scratches were old and had had ample time to rust.

  ‘Looks like you really hit it off with the super then, doesn’t it? I like the livery, by the way. But what’s it supposed to be?’

  McLusky gave the roof a friendly pat and tried to look proud. ‘This baby is a 1981 VW Polo. 40 bhp. It does nought to sixty.’ The car was unlocked. The doors opened stiffly with ominous metallic yawns.

  Austin sniffed doubtfully at the musty interior. It smelled like it had been stored in a cave since the mid-eighties. ‘We could drive to the station and pick up my car.’

  ‘Nonsense, man, it’s not that bad.’ He turned the ignition key and listened to the nasal parp of the exhaust as the engine rattled and shook itself awake.

  ‘On second thoughts, this could be a wind-up … did you see them drive it or did it get here on the back of a flatbed truck?’

  Fish and chips from Pellegrino’s. They ate sitting in the car. The heater didn’t work but right now McLusky was quite happy just to sit out of the rain in the vinegary fug rising from their paper parcels. A traffic warden knocked on the steamed-up window. McLusky cranked it down. It took some effort.

  She shook her head at them. ‘Sorry to disrupt your meal but you can’t stop here, gentlemen.’

  McLusky fished with greasy fingers for his ID and held it aloft for the woman to inspect. ‘We’re under cover, please move along.’

  The warden shrugged, then took a last glance at the graffiti’d bonnet before moving on. ‘Of course you are.’

  McLusky stuck his head out and called after her. ‘You blew our cover!’

  While following Austin’s directions to the Royal Infirmary he wondered how soon he would be able to drive there in his sleep. Every CID officer in every city could sleepwalk to A amp;E and the mortuary, it was part of the job. He cruised around for a parking space. How could the National Health Service have a funding crisis? The parking fees alone should take care of it. He squeezed the little Polo on to the end of a row reserved for staff and abandoned it, two wheels buried in spiky shrubbery. ‘Sorry about that. Get out my side.’

  ‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’ Austin levered himself across the gear stick and out the driver’s side.

  ‘Yeah, right, if it gets towed away I’ll cry.’

  ‘Not that, I mean if whatsisname, Kelper, is in charg
e shouldn’t we await orders from on high?’

  ‘Bollocks to that. You don’t think they’ll actually do any investigating, do you? They’ll throw their weight around for a few hours and get waited on hand and foot. When they’re satisfied that Al Qaeda hasn’t taken to blowing up park benches in an effort to undermine British morale they’ll disappear again. No, we’ll carry on as normal. Let’s ask at reception here.’

  He hated hospitals. Never mind the smell, never mind the lousy food or MRSA superbugs; never mind his unhappy memories of the weeks spent mending after two suspects had reversed over him. It was more than that: McLusky hated hospitals because he felt depression oozing from the very fabric of the buildings. He knew that the cloying, stifling mood would hang around in his clothes and hair like a miasma of hopelessness for hours afterwards. He simply couldn’t believe that good things ever happened here. Post mortems he avoided for the same reason. He’d yet to learn anything at a post mortem he couldn’t read in a report at his desk or ask over the phone without having to try and shake off the reek of death afterwards. Someone had to attend of course but who said it had to be him? Once a dead body had been removed from the crime scene he was happy to leave it to the scientists and grave diggers.

  The boy’s bed was by the window in a room with two other male patients who were either asleep, unconscious or dead, it was hard to tell. Joel Kerswill’s mother was there, on a hard chair at the bedside. It was clear she had cried recently and since cheered up again at the excellent prognosis. The curtain separating the Kerswills from the bed next to them was drawn but the front curtain was open.

  The boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen. He was sitting propped up against the big hospital cushions with a fierce expression of disapproval on his pale face. His right eye was covered with a white dressing. There were scratches and pock marks on his cheek and forehead where flying splinters had hit, all scabbing over now.