Falling More Slowly ilm-1

by Peter Helton

  ‘That’s DC Dearlove.’

  ‘Good lord.’

  Austin wasn’t sure if the inspector was referring to Daniel Dearlove’s name or looks. Dearlove had bad posture and mousy hair so thin and clogged with hair gel that his pink scalp showed through everywhere. His wispy moustache clung to a narrow pink lip. He looked like a kid dressed up by his mum in a hand-me-down suit.

  ‘Call him over, will you?’

  ‘Hey, Deedee.’

  Dearlove looked up from his notebook, changed direction but continued reading as he walked. His lips were moving.

  ‘By the way, Deedee’s polyester suits generate enough static electricity to charge your mobile with.’

  ‘Genius.’

  Dearlove looked up from his notebook only when he had come to a halt in front of Austin. ‘Jane? Inspector?’

  McLusky saw Dearlove’s fingers were stained with ink from a leaky biro. ‘Did you get anything of interest?’

  ‘Ehm, not really. The trainer said she’d never seen the victim use a powder compact, in fact she didn’t think she normally used make-up at all.’

  ‘She might have used the compact just for the mirror. Okay. Where was the victim taken? Royal Infirmary?’

  ‘No, Southmead Hospital. Burns Unit.’

  ‘Right. Get someone down there straight away, I want a constable outside her room round the clock. Work out a rota and see it’s adhered to. Then contact Southmead Burns Unit and tell them I want to interview Maxine Bendick at the first possible. Get both organized and get back to me.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’ Dearlove sighed. His shift should have finished hours ago. There was a film on TV he’d wanted to watch starting this minute and he hadn’t thought of setting the recorder. Once you joined the police force you had to record the rest of your life, just in case you weren’t there to see it. And as usual there wasn’t enough left in the budget to pay overtime, even before flashy bastards like McLusky wrote off brand new cars.

  ‘Right.’ McLusky had already forgotten Dearlove. ‘Let’s get everything collated and see if any of it makes sense when looked at together.’

  ‘Okay. We have lift-off …’ Jane walked briskly away towards his little car.

  McLusky cast a weary eye over the scene. The press hung about patiently or perhaps were just resigned to boredom, hoping for developments, statements, things to photograph. Someone had found more tape by the looks of it, constables were busy fluttering the stuff in more sensible places, ordering people beyond the line. Tourists were getting extra entertainment and were making the most of the pause in the rain. Shoppers with carrier bags walked slowly by. Strangers talked to strangers.

  He spotted the superintendent heaving himself out of his spotless car at the street corner and his stomach responded with a protesting growl. Danish pastry for breakfast was okay but you got hungry again after five minutes. He walked off in the opposite direction and ducked under the tape. It was the wrong colour. It also read Caution, Electric Cables Below. Someone had shown initiative.

  Doubling back towards Park Street, putting distance between himself and his superior, he felt like he had when skiving from school, something he had done a lot of. But he felt no guilt. He couldn’t think too long on an empty stomach without becoming short-tempered, even absent-minded. He hoped this wouldn’t mean he’d end up in the same shape as the super, who clearly liked his food and, according to Jane, his beer.

  He stopped briefly to look back towards Brandon Hill and the bomb site, now completely cleared. All that remained was the blackened concrete base on which the shelter had stood. The council had already announced that it would be rebuilt. He wondered morosely if any such announcements would be made about Maxine Bendick’s face.

  Near the museum he had adopted a bistro that served tapas, a drinkable cappuccino and wine by the glass. A few tables stood empty on the uneven pavement, waiting for the arrival of spring. The waitress smiled in recognition as she handed him the menu. Would she still smile at him if she knew that he was a police officer? He ordered bread, olives, a dish with spicy sausages and something that looked like overcooked ratatouille but tasted fine. The food here, although Spanish, reminded him of Greece but was conveyed to his table with un-Mediterranean haste.

  If murder and mayhem spoilt your appetite then the police force was clearly not for you. McLusky enjoyed every morsel of his food and his glass of red precisely because he had a bad feeling about these explosions. Over the past few days he had completely convinced himself that he was dealing with a one-off, whatever the target had been, whatever the motive. The second explosion changed everything. And the super had put him in charge. He raised his eyes from his empty plates and found the waitress looking at him from behind the high bar. He nodded at her, intending to ask for his bill, but when she arrived at the table found himself ordering more wine instead.

  The second bomb had nothing prankish about it. It was a deeply malicious thing. This could not be misconstrued as someone wanting to create a bang. Someone had wanted to hurt Maxine Bendick. Someone had gone to considerable lengths to hurt Maxine Bendick, constructed the device, concealed it inside her compact. It took a particular kind of person to imagine the injuries the device would cause and still persist in building it, planting it. It took an extraordinary depth of feeling, like hate or the desire for revenge, on the one hand, and a complete lack of empathy on the other. The person behind this was not lashing out, here was forethought and planning. Malice aforethought. McLusky drained his glass. Two could play that game.

  Chapter Five

  ‘What I was afraid of most has happened, then, a second device has been detonated. I had hoped we were looking at a one-off, a badly judged prank, but I was wrong.’ McLusky was glad about the two glasses of wine he had had. The incident room that had been set up at Albany Road in record time was tiny and crowded with tables, computers and personnel. He had perched himself on a folding table to appear casual as he talked to the assembled crew, only to find that the table was so rickety he felt it might collapse under him. Yet he stayed where he was. To compensate he lit a cigarette. Sod the no-smoking rules. He would stop smoking at work when people stopped killing, robbing and mutilating each other. This time nobody objected. Just a short while later one or two other cigarettes were furtively lit elsewhere in the room.

  Addressing the troops was nothing new, but getting new troops on your side was important for anyone hoping to lead an investigation. Any roomful of detectives contained a selection of bright, intelligent sparklers, competitive climbers, dullards treading water, skivers, sharp operators and sometimes downright villainous specimens of police-hood. You couldn’t afford to take your time over finding out who was who, that would come later. You had to size them up as you would a roomful of drunks where you were expected to restore order. Who were the troublemakers, who could be an ally, who would slink away, and who might stab you in the back?

  ‘But we were told the two devices were quite different.’ DI Kat Fairfield was holding her biro like a dagger, jabbing it against her notebook for emphasis. ‘The first could still have been by a different perpetrator. Could still have been an act of vandalism, in fact. While this one was personal. Aimed at one specific person, Maxine Bendix.’

  ‘Bendick. It could be. It could be a copycat thing, someone suddenly getting a taste for blowing up people. It could be coincidence even, but I don’t believe that. No. Making these devices takes time, getting the ingredients for the bombs together, that alone takes a lot of time.’ Every shop in the area that had sold fireworks over the past twelve months was being contacted, staff and owners quizzed about large amounts of fireworks being purchased. That too took a lot of time, a lot of man-hours. ‘Of course we can never rule out anything until we have bagged our man.’

  ‘Do we know it’s a man, sir?’

  French? DC Claire French, was it? He was good with names but the DC had a face so plain it bordered on the expressionless and he only vaguely remembered seeing her before. She to
ok plain clothes to an extreme, too, and would disappear into any shopping centre crowd without leaving a trace on the retina. A good trait in a detective. ‘No, you’re right, we don’t know that at all, nor do we know that we are dealing with a single perpetrator. We can make the thing as complicated as we like, really. We could have two separate perpetrators or one, a single bomb maker or a group, an original bomber and a copycat bomber.’ Some nodded in assent, let’s keep it simple by all means.

  A sudden thought struck him and a dark vista of horrors opened up before him. He was about to throw this into the ring, then decided to keep his suspicions to himself. Concentrate their minds on what we’ve got. ‘There has been no communication from the bomber, no declaration, no demands. In the absence of that we’ll need to look at the victims for a motive.’

  A hand was raised with pointed index finger in school-boy irony. DS Sorbie. ‘What if the attacks are motiveless?’

  ‘Have you ever come across a motiveless crime?’

  ‘Loads.’

  ‘I doubt that. Unprovoked, yes, senseless, certainly, motiveless, never. Since we know little or nothing about the suspect we might find a lead in who the victims are. At the moment it’s all we’ve got, though I admit I’m a bit baffled. We have three victims so far. One, a boy returning home from an interview at the parks department. He makes an unlikely target. Perhaps for a bomb built by his old school mates but that’s a little outlandish for me. Elizabeth Howe, recently-made-redundant postmistress. It is hard to imagine a less likely target for a bomb attack. Surely something involving brown paper and string would be more appropriate. Which leaves Maxine Bendick. What do we know about her? Who wants to harm her?’

  DS Sorbie looked contemptuous. ‘She works for the council — spoiled for choice, I should think.’

  ‘What department, was it housing?’

  ‘Yes, mainly, but she also did stints in other departments, processing forms, sorting out queries. Half the people who come in there must feel pretty murderous about backlogs, delays and such, waiting lists, council tax, fines etc.’

  ‘Good point, Sorbie. Find out if anyone has made any threats, are there any particular disputes between the council and a member of the public where Bendick was the one dealing with them, either directly or by letter where she could be identified.’

  ‘Sir, we … DI Fairfield and I, are supposed to get urgent results on the Mobile Muggers as well.’ It simply wasn’t fair on them and if Kat wasn’t going to speak up then he would. ‘The super is leaning on us to get a result re the muggings and make arrests, yet now we’re supposed to work on the bombings as well. There’s also been a spate of burglaries all along the …’

  DI Fairfield shot Sorbie a look and his complaint fizzled out. The last thing she needed was for McLusky to get the impression she couldn’t cope with her workload.

  ‘I’m aware of the pressures on you. I’m leaning on you, the super leans on all of us, so go lean on some other poor sod.’

  DI Fairfield’s biro was poised over the paper. ‘This second device. Was it designed to kill?’

  ‘No, too small, by all accounts and a different kind of explosion apparently.’ He watched Fairfield scribble it all down without even looking at her notebook. McLusky was impressed. He had tried writing without looking once and produced an undecipherable mess.

  He doled out more tasks to the troops then let them loose. It felt like firing shots into the dark with a weapon he hadn’t loaded himself. He might be firing blanks. Which reminded him. He turned to Austin. ‘Where’s Dearlove?’

  DC Dearlove had managed to hide throughout the briefing, even in this cramped room, behind the broad back of DS Sorbie. Austin spotted him and called across the noise of the meeting breaking up. ‘Hey, Deedee, can we borrow your brain for a minute?’

  Dearlove stood up. ‘Yeah, okay, what for?’

  ‘We’re trying to build an idiot.’

  ‘Funny, Jane.’ Then he felt himself skewered by McLusky’s unnerving green eyes and was compelled to walk over after all.

  McLusky wondered how the gawky youth with a suit full of static had made it into the police force. Would there really be a Detective Inspector Dearlove one day? ‘Bendick has round-the-clock protection? When can I see her?’

  ‘I left a note on your desk, sir.’

  ‘I’m not a great note reader, Deedee. Find me, talk to me, call my mobile, send a pigeon. Don’t leave bits of paper lying around expecting people to have read them, you get into trouble that way. Always make sure information is passed on properly and you know it’s been received.’

  ‘Okay, sir. Is that all, sir?’

  ‘No, Deedee, it isn’t all. What did you write in your damn note?’

  ‘Oh, sure, it’s all done, there’ll be a bod outside her room, 24/7. There was no word from Southmead on when she can be interviewed. They were operating when I asked. They’ll let us know.’

  ‘They never do. Keep asking, okay?’ He turned to Austin. ‘If this was a murder inquiry what would you be doing right now, Jane?’ Austin opened his mouth but McLusky was already walking away. ‘I’m going to watch a video.’

  In his office he found notes, performance targets, preliminary reports, memos and other things he hated with a passion. But no CCTV footage. Of course he hated CCTV footage too. What you saw there was already over, could no longer be prevented. CCTV showed you crimes that should never have happened, accidents that could have been avoided, people who by now had disappeared and victims already dead. He hated everything about it. Yet it was sometimes useful and it often secured convictions.

  He phoned the desk. The footage from the gym and surrounding area should have arrived by now. There was no answer. He let it ring for a while then left his office and clattered downstairs.

  It was the public who really liked CCTV. They couldn’t get enough of it. They liked being watched, it made them feel safe. To like being under surveillance you had to have a childish faith in the benevolence of those who were watching you, a faith McLusky didn’t share. All this stuff looked good practice now but nothing lasted forever, not even democracy.

  The noise level coming from the lobby was alarming for this time of day. When he let himself in through the security door he could see why no one had answered the phone. Down here at least two phones were ringing incessantly. Everyone was arguing loudly with someone. The place looked more like a bad Saturday night than mid-afternoon on a weekday. Two half-naked drunks were being noisily processed. One of them was being restrained by two PCs while he screamed abuse at Tony Hayes, the desk officer. The other drunk who, judging by the state of his rancid trainers, was the author of a pool of vomit on the floor, gave slurred support to his friend. ‘Too fuckin’ right, Bobby … they’ve no right … you fuckin’ said it.’ Two officers were waiting to check in their customers, two girls arrested for shoplifting. Repeat offenders, scrawny smack heads who whined with hard flat voices that grated in McLusky’s ears. Their hair was thin, their skin pale and slack. A middle-aged black woman wearing an ensemble of Day-Glo clothes stood under the noticeboard, talking loudly to herself in impenetrable angry patois while treading from one foot to another like a child needing the toilet. An elderly Asian couple walked into the lobby. Both said something that to McLusky’s lip-reading skills looked like ‘Oh dear’ and walked straight out again. The drunk and disorderly would sober up in the cells, the shoplifters would be processed and eventually released back on to the streets. Having been relieved of the stolen goods the girls would of course have to commit some crime as soon as possible. If the shops were shut by then they would have to mug someone to get the money for gear or else they’d smash their way into a car to find stuff to sell. Meanwhile politicians congratulated themselves if the price of heroin went up because of Customs and Excise seizures. They imagined it a success while all it meant was volume crime had to rise with it to match the escalating price. But the price of heroin was still shockingly low compared to a night out at a club.

 
Addiction … He craved another cigarette. For McLusky an air of futility seemed to rise from the vomit-and dirt-covered floor. Here were six police officers who would spend hours dealing with four teenagers who had made drugs and alcohol the centre of their universe; a universe so tiny there was no room left inside for anyone but themselves. The screaming bloke was handcuffed now and got tired of struggling but kept up the verbal with moronic repetitiveness. Tony Hayes, who had been abused by experts during his many years in the job, showed no sign of strain, though he briefly raised one eyebrow when one of the girls shut up long enough to spit in his direction. Tony Hayes liked a clean lobby. Tony Hayes was also wearing his stabbie as a matter of course, ever since an irate customer had vaulted the desk and attacked him with a sharpened screwdriver last summer. McLusky let himself into the relative security of the area behind the desk. Hayes acknowledged him but kept his concentration on logging the details of the drunk. McLusky looked around, spotted a likely-looking carrier bag with a yellow post-it sticker on one of the desks and grabbed it.

  ‘I meant to send them up as soon as I had a minute.’ Hayes spoke without turning around, having excellent hearing as well as eyes at the back of his head.

  The bag was suspiciously light. ‘There’s not a lot here.’

  ‘That’s all that came, sir.’

  Back upstairs McLusky found a DVR and monitor in the CID room. It was quiet, most officers being out for a change, chasing something. Austin was there chewing a cheap biro into oblivion in front of his computer. McLusky loaded the footage. There was none from the gym. He complained about it to Austin.

  ‘There wouldn’t be, the system’s not switched on during the day.’

  All that had come was CCTV from the Council House car park. Footage of the whole day was there but for the moment he was only interested in that covering the time and area of Maxine Bendick’s approximate arrival. The image was in black and white and a time counter ran at the bottom right, accurate to one tenth of a second. Once he knew what he was looking at he could safely fast-forward until the car whizzed into view, then he rewound and pressed play. The Mini came into the picture on the bottom left, speeded up and slotted neatly into the space in one movement. At this moment there were no people and no other moving cars visible. All the spaces at this end were taken now. After only the shortest interval Maxine Bendick got out of the car. He paused the tape. So that’s what she looked like. He mentally corrected himself: this is what she had looked like, before half her face was burnt off. He released the flow of the image. The woman sprang to life again, retrieved her bag from the passenger seat then pointed her key, which was answered by a silent flash of the car lights. She walked off briskly through the rain. An undamaged, unburnt Maxine, untouched by the madness, walked into the wilderness without noticing it. The car park was on a slight slope. The picture angle was a little awkward but adequate, looking across from the top of one of the high lamp-posts. Maxine was making her way towards the edge of the picture which only showed a narrow strip of pavement. A couple, man and woman, appeared from that direction. He would later follow their movements and, if they walked to a car, try and identify it and trace them. Maxine speeded up now and then disappeared out of the frame. End of story. Nothing had happened.