Falling More Slowly ilm-1

by Peter Helton

  Austin pointed to a man in his early thirties, sitting morosely with his back to a bollard under the watchful eye of Constable Pym. ‘This character over there. He flagged down a Traffic unit that happened to be passing. I don’t think he’s happy about having to hang around, though.’

  ‘Well, that’s just tough. Let’s have a quick chat with him.’

  Even when he stood in front of him the man didn’t get up until he addressed him. ‘Do you think we could have a word? I’m Detective Inspector McLusky. And you are?’

  ‘Reed.’

  ‘You found the body.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where exactly was the body when you first saw it?’

  ‘Just there, where they pulled her out. She was sort of floating, face down. Just by the edge.’

  ‘Did you pull her out?’

  ‘No, didn’t touch her, I know not to touch dead bodies. I went and found a police car and stopped them. They pulled her out.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ McLusky turned around, contemplated the group of crime scene technicians near the water’s edge for a few seconds, then turned to Reed again. The man’s boots were muddy, and his hands were a little grimy. His fingernails were positively black. ‘What’s your first name, Mr Reed?’

  ‘It’s Chris, Christopher. I gave all my details to that policewoman …’ His gaze moved about, trying to spot the officer who had taken his details.

  ‘Never mind. And what do you do, Chris? You don’t mind if I call you Chris?’

  ‘Ehm, no, I’m a student.’

  ‘At the uni? What are you studying?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it? I didn’t have anything to do with the girl dying, I just found her. I was just passing. Why are you asking me questions? Is that what you get for helping the police, endless questions?’

  This kind of reaction always rang little alarm bells with McLusky. ‘Bear with us, Chris, we’ll have you on your way in no time. So, what were you doing down here?’

  Reed shrugged. ‘Just passing, riding my bike.’

  ‘Right. Is that your bike back there? By the railings?’ It was difficult to make out from here. ‘Do you have lights on your bike?’

  ‘There’s a dead girl and you ask me about the lights on my bike?’ He made a silent appeal to Austin but got nothing in return but a lizard stare. ‘Okay, no, I don’t have lights, are you going to arrest me for that?’

  ‘And where were you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘In Cotham.’

  ‘And you were coming from where?’

  ‘Nowhere. Just riding my bike.’

  McLusky shot Austin a questioning look. Austin’s eyebrows rose and he took over. ‘Just for fun?’

  ‘Yes. That’s allowed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure. Only Cotham is quite a ways from here … Chris. And your bike, if I remember rightly, is just an old boneshaker with no gears. It’s pretty dark down here too with no lights and there’s broken glass about.’

  McLusky took up the baton again. ‘Okay, Chris, let’s try again. What were you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing illegal, I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I would like to believe that, really I would. What did you say you were studying?’

  ‘Political science.’

  ‘Not horticulture then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your hands, your fingernails, you look like you’ve been gardening or something. You said you didn’t go near the body, how did your hands get that dirty?’

  ‘I … the chain came off my bike. Now look …’

  The body had been pulled out at a spot more or less equidistant from the two bridges, where it would be darkest. ‘So how did you spot the body in the water if you were cycling and had no lights?’

  ‘I was pushing it at the time. As you said, there’s lots of glass around here.’

  ‘Okay, you were pushing your bike along this dismal bit of path in the dark for no reason whatsoever, on the wrong side of town, near a row of houses, several of which have recently been burgled.’ He had invented the burglaries but it seemed to pay dividends, Reed became visibly scared.

  ‘Burglary? What else are you going to accuse me of? First that I have something to do with the dead girl, then burglary. You’re completely mad.’

  Behind Reed an elderly man at the cordon started heckling the police and technicians, his hard-edged face a mask of anger in the ghoulish light. ‘I could have told you that would happen. It was only a matter of time. Decent street lighting and constables on the beat is what we need. You lot only turn up when it’s all too late. You’re useless.’

  A PC ambled over to have a soothing word with him. McLusky opted for a change of venue. ‘Do you have anything on you that you shouldn’t?’

  Reed shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Sure? Okay. Show me your bike.’

  Reed didn’t budge. ‘It’s just back there.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s have a quick look at it.’

  ‘It’s just an ordinary bicycle.’ Despite his resistance he became the reluctant filling in a CID sandwich as Austin led the way, McLusky following close behind.

  ‘You see, it’s just an old bike.’ Somehow Reed stood back from it, as if trying to dissociate himself from it.

  ‘It’s a wreck. Can you open the panniers for us, please.’

  Reed’s hands fumbled with the fastener of the first pannier. He opened it and stood back.

  ‘Fruit. That’s a lot of fruit, Chris. And in bad condition, most of it.’ He picked up an orange, flicking a thumbnail over its mildewed rind.

  ‘Yeah, I forgot it was in there actually. I got it cheap from the market. I’ll probably need to chuck that away now.’

  ‘Okay. What’s in the other one, more fruit?’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘Yes. The other one.’

  Reed opened it with an impatient flick. Snugly fitted inside was a plastic container brimful with dark, oily mud. The hooked handle of a ladle was just visible.

  McLusky impatiently wriggled his fingers. ‘The leaflets, hand them over.’

  Reed shoved a hand deep into his jacket and produced a wad of his home-made pamphlets. DISABLE A CAR TODAY … McLusky handed them on to the PC. ‘Here, get Fruit ’n’ Mud and his bicycle down the station for a chat. If he gives you any grief at all, caution him. We want to chat some more and when we’re finished I know a few people from Traffic who are keen to have a word.’

  Sorbie shifted on his bar stool, checked the time on his mobile and swore silently. He was on his fourth mug of stewed tea at the clapboard cafe that served the lock-up owners, delivery drivers and the workers from the nearby trading estate. From where he was sitting he had a good view of Mitchell’s lock-up, just two doors up. Entrance to the warehouses was on alternate sides to give more forecourt space, which meant that old cars, broken-down vans, stacks of wooden pallets and nests of bins proliferated on both sides.

  There was no guarantee that Mitchell would turn up before the tea and sausage rolls Sorbie kept ordering at intervals gave him the heartburn from hell but it would be worth it. A bit of banter, some sleight of hand — he’d always been good at that, card tricks, shoplifting as a school kid — and soon Mr Mitchell’s emporium would lie wide open to explore. After that a bit of luck and good timing was what was needed. Quite a bit of luck, come to think of it. And here was the bastard at last, getting out of an unfashionable old Jaguar. And he was by himself which was perfect. Sorbie moved fast; he had to time this just right. His bike was parked close to the huge double doors, giving him the excuse to walk over. As far as he knew Mitchell had never set eyes on him yet it was important he would not recognize him later, so Sorbie put his helmet on and pretended to fumble with his straps just as Mitchell snapped open the enormous brass padlock that secured the doors.

  Heavy in Sorbie’s jacket pocket weighed another padlock of identical make, already flipped open. ‘S’cuse me,
mate. I was wonderin’ …’

  Mitchell turned around suspiciously. ‘What?’

  ‘I was wonderin’ … me and a couple of mates was thinking of maybe renting one of these lock-ups for using as a workshop. For fixing up bikes for the bike club.’

  ‘And?’ Mitchell turned his back on him and opened the door just wide enough to let himself in.

  ‘I was wonderin’ how big they was and how much the council charged and that.’

  Mitchell flicked a wall switch and high up in the ceiling two banks of neon lights blinked on. By the time he turned round to face Sorbie again the padlocks had changed places.

  ‘Mind if I have a quick shufti?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t allow you in there, security, see? But, I mean, you can get an idea of the size from here. And what you pay depends entirely on what state the place is in, whether it has leccy and water and all that. All right? Ask the council.’ Mitchell was closing the door on him.

  Sorbie turned away, nodding, as though totally satisfied. ‘Yeah, cheers, mate.’ He started his bike and rode off straight away, without looking back. At the next junction he turned off, parked the bike next to a waiting Renault and got into the car on the passenger side.

  DI Fairfield started the engine. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Piece of piss, guv. I still think you should let me go in instead.’

  ‘We’ve already had this talk, twice, DI Sorbie. I’ll not discuss it again. You’ve done your bit and I’m grateful, now shove off, you’re off duty. If it goes tits up then at least it’ll be my tits. Hand over the lock.’

  Sorbie dropped the weighty padlock into her outstretched palm and got out, closing the door with disapproving but not insubordinate force. Fairfield waited until he had ridden off then drove fast in the opposite direction to the warehouses, turned into the potholed customer car park of the Railway Tavern and parked in a spot from where it was just possible, albeit at an extreme angle, to observe the doors of Mitchell’s lock-up. They’d been very lucky, the timing couldn’t have been better. It was cashing-up time now at the cafe. Through her lightweight binoculars she observed the girls as they took in the menu boards and closed the shutters of the squat wooden hut. At all times she kept the doors of the lock-up in view. She didn’t expect to see anything surprising. When they had first targeted Mitchell they had watched ad nauseam as nothing much happened. No one except the owner was ever seen visiting and the eventual search of the lock-up had produced nothing but more or less legitimate junk. A search of Mitchell’s garden flat had equally drawn a blank. Yet she remained convinced that Mitchell was behind the scooter muggings. Not that there wasn’t enough other street crime to keep them going, but the persistence of this gang and the arrogance of the man she suspected to run it rankled. She knew she was damaging her career in pursuit of a small-time criminal but she didn’t care. Other officers had a more sanguine attitude to criminals who got away. They consoled themselves with the thought that you could never catch them all and that if you couldn’t get them for a particular offence you were bound to get them for another one later. It was an attitude she found hard to cultivate. For her, letting a criminal carry on meant she was failing to protect the victims of his crimes. This, too, was probably not a practical stance. She knew that some of her colleagues loathed the victims of crime almost as much as those perpetrating it. It was true some people seemed to invite crime.

  The only thing she felt slightly guilty about was leaving Sorbie under the impression that she had thought up the padlock trick herself when in reality she’d remembered it from a crime story she had read years ago.

  It wasn’t long until Mitchell emerged, carrying a box. Through her binoculars she could make out the picture of a DVD player on its side. Transferring the box to his left hip he hefted the heavy door shut with his shoulder, then hooked the padlock in place and snapped it shut one-handed. A conscientious tug to test it had fastened, then he walked left out of sight to where she knew his car stood. Moments later the Jaguar passed her field of vision going west in the direction of Mitchell’s home.

  Once she was sure the cafe staff had all gone Fairfield didn’t waste any time. She had come prepared with gloves, pencil torch and a small digital camera that had excellent night vision. As she started across the car park, eyes fixed on the lock-up on the other side of the road, four young men heading towards the pub in high spirits called out to her. ‘You’re going the wrong way, sweetheart, the pub’s over there.’

  ‘Yeah, come and join us, come for a drink.’

  Fairfield gave them a non-committal smile. And just in case they took further interest she kept walking until the pub was out of sight, allowing time for the lads to disappear inside, then walked back, crossed the road and sauntered up to the lock-up, making it look as though she belonged. The cold brass lock released after one turn of the key.

  ‘Open sesame.’

  A huge, sprawling hive. A big, convoluted, up-and-down-switchback town full of noise, full of life, full of everything a man could want. Here were all the pubs and clubs, all the theatres and museums, restaurants and takeaways you could stomach. Its streets made you feel that anything might happen, to someone, somewhere, for some reason. He loved this city. He’d grown up here, knew every corner and alley as well as his adversaries did. Sometimes he knew them better, since he had made it his business to better them. He owned this place in a way an incomer like McLusky would never do, however long he hung about. Which is why he, Sorbie, would make a fist of it. An angry fist but one that served well. Career mattered, clear-up rates mattered, yet just fighting the war also mattered to him. They could never win the war, not even a police state could win this war, but you had to keep winning battles, at least some of them, keep putting the fear into them, or the streets would become unmanageable. Once that happened, ghettos and no-go areas would follow, parts of the city abandoned, handed over to the dregs of society to be administered by the criminally insane. It could happen. But it must not happen. Not here.

  Which is why Sorbie was riding noughts and crosses around the areas not covered by CCTV in his spare time, listening to Control on his radio, waiting for business.

  While waiting he worried about Kat. He should be there covering her back, but she had told him in such vehement terms to keep away that he had obeyed orders, reluctantly and under protest. By the same token he had kept his own crusade secret, knowing that she would disapprove, even disallow it. Now both of them were engaged in irregular warfare, by themselves, without back-up, each putting their own career in jeopardy. It didn’t make sense.

  But how else …? He would never have got permission to go after the Mobile Muggers on a private bike, not without lengthy special training and as part of a wider operation. Not that he imagined himself to be as competent as a trained police rider, yet his confidence was growing. He’d ridden the bike every day for a week now and it all came back to him. Though this was only the second time he had seriously looked for business in the hours he knew the muggers operated in.

  Sorbie completed another sweep that had taken him all the way from St Anne’s to Ashton Court. He was on his way back towards the centre, bemoaning the waste of petrol under his breath, when his radio spewed out the message he’d been waiting for.

  The muggers had struck in an alley near a fish and chip shop, then ridden off on two scooters heading in his general direction. The victim had been badly beaten. An ambulance was on the way, a car was being routed to the area. Only the helicopter was not available again and without it they had little chance of picking them up.

  Keeping his freelance status intact by leaving the radio unanswered Sorbie sped towards the area, riding just close enough to the speed limit not to attract too much attention. The last thing he needed was to get stopped by Traffic Division. If his mental calculations were right and luck was with him he might just run into them somewhere around Ashton Gate. He could already see from the absence of floodlights at the stadium that the area would be quiet apart from the main tho
roughfares.

  The raw noise of the engine gave him confidence. No scooter however fancy would be able to outrun him on this bike. From what he had seen of the scooter riders and their pathetic style they had never taken a bike test. Sooner or later one of them would crash and, if not, they should certainly be encouraged to.

  Where the hell were they? Drab streets stretched in all directions. He hesitated at an ill-lit junction. Across the road from the midst of a rubbish landslide piled against the blind wall of a house a smouldering sofa sent up dismal smoke signals. A fine rain had begun to drift on the breeze and would soon extinguish it.

  The radio under his jacket burbled. A Traffic unit had sighted them, not far from his own position. He turned right, hassling the bike towards the river. Soon he heard the disappointed voice of the pursuing officer on the airwave. ‘We’ve lost them now. Suspects drove between a couple of bollards down a footpath. We won’t catch them now on our own. Usual story. Do you want us to continue?’

  ‘Negative, Delta One, can you attend a disturbance in Stackpool Road instead …?’

  Sorbie approved. They’d be less than useless and might get in his way. Better for the scooter guys to think they had shaken off any pursuit. Footpaths, alleys and cycle paths were a safe bet for them as long as there wasn’t a helicopter up. Even then they could split up, doubling their chances. The fact that they hadn’t been picked up so far showed that someone had given it some thought.

  Tonight, without a helicopter, it would take busloads of officers to flush them out. Or one detective sergeant with a second-hand bike and a tankful of luck. Several intuitive corners and fast squirts of the throttle later, Sorbie’s luck appeared to hold.

  Perhaps they didn’t know the area as well as they thought they did because there, a few hundred yards in front of him on the main road, ran two dark scooters side by side. ‘Past your bedtime, boys.’ He opened the throttle wide to catch them up.

  He had underestimated the noise his engine would throw along the quiet evening streets. The already alert pillions both turned suspiciously and soon the scooters sped off around the next corner. Twenty seconds later he was there, in time to see them leave the road, cross the pavement and disappear across the grass behind a graffiti-covered sub-station. He gave chase. The grass was slippery and Sorbie was no off-road expert but the trail bike behaved impeccably and had the advantage over scooters made for city streets. Here was no man’s land, the dispiriting non-space between the tangles of uncrossable streets into which pedestrians had been forced. Nobody in their right mind walked here at night. Several streetlamps stood lightless, victims of a spate of air rifle shootings. Sorbie’s single headlight illuminated the litter-strewn paths and verges and allowed him to dodge the abandoned shopping trolleys and sagging cardboard boxes that had found their way here.