by Peter Helton
‘I’m sure you’ll find work at the end.’
‘It’s years away, I don’t really want to think about it yet. How’s yours? Caught him yet?’ She smiled. It was something she had asked Liam every day by way of greeting in the early days, before the reality of his job had bitten, before she had begun to hate it. Yet for some reason a wave of unwanted nostalgia threatened her and she kept smiling. The arrival of McLusky’s burger broke the mood. ‘See, it comes with patatas bravas, so no need to feel left out.’
‘Who says I was feeling left out?’
‘And? Have you?’
‘What?’
‘Caught him yet.’
‘I thought that was rhetorical. No. And I think he has just managed to bag another victim. A bloke disappeared from his car, just like the woman.’
‘Did they know each other?’
‘Not that I can see, no,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Spicy potatoes, not bad,’ was his verdict on patatas bravas. He started attacking his burger and stuffed enough of it in his mouth to be able to quietly look at Laura for a minute. She looked more beautiful than ever. Happier, too, somehow. Was it because she was no longer stuck in a dead-end job or because she was no longer living with him? It was the uni, he decided. He had enjoyed it too. And then some kind of madness had gripped him after graduation and he had gone straight on to police college.
‘How are you keeping now? Have you done anything about your flat yet?’
‘Some. Bought some stuff. Got a fridge.’
‘Heating?’
‘Sure.’ Since there was no heating in his flat he had gone to the junk shop down the road and bought a two-bar electric heater with backlit plastic logs at the bottom. It heated mainly itself so he used the gas oven for extra heat. He’d sort it out before the next winter. Laura knew that ‘sure’ from McLusky’s mouth almost certainly meant ‘not quite’ and she opened her mouth to say so when McLusky’s mobile rang.
He semaphored regret and apology as he fished it from his jacket. It was Austin. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he heard him say.
‘Yes I will, Jane, because I know you wouldn’t lie to me.’
‘Michael Leslie has turned up.’
McLusky sat up straighter, absentmindedly spearing potatoes with his fork. ‘Alive?’
The connection was crackling and noisy. ‘Yes, at his brother’s house. DC French was there when he turned up. In a taxi. Leslie claims he just left the Jaguar and went walkabouts but according to French he looked in a bad way. Whatever, he’s at his brother’s, he’s alive and off our hands.’
‘Jane, “whatever” is not part of my vocabulary.’
‘I’ve noticed, sir. There’s something weird going on there. I mean with the Leslies. Oh, and Richard Leslie wants his car back and his DNA samples destroyed.’
McLusky had stuffed his mouth full of food while he listened. Now he swallowed hard and angrily before saying: ‘Not a snowball’s! Forensics have got the car and he can have it when they’re through with it. Are you still at Albany?’
‘Driving home. Why?’
‘I’m thinking.’ He picked up the burger one-handed and messily nibbled on it. ‘I need to talk to that man. But you go on home. I’ll drive out there now and have a chat.’
‘Good news?’ asked Laura when he had put his mobile away. ‘I managed to pick out the word “alive” from all that.’
‘Yes.’ McLusky frowned at the remains of his massacred burger. He had no recollection of having eaten any of it and was still hungry ‘The bloke we thought had been abducted by our killer turned up alive. Says he just went walkabout.’
‘You don’t sound terribly pleased,’ she observed correctly.
McLusky wiped his hands on a paper napkin then dropped it on to his plate. ‘I’m not, damn it. That man was abducted, I just know it.’
‘And let go? Do you think a ransom was paid?’
McLusky froze for a moment, his eyes staring into the middle distance while he thought about it, then he shook his head. ‘No. Too quick. Anyway, we had left a police officer there with a digital recorder in case his brother was called. Even if he dodged French I don’t believe he could have arranged to pay a kidnapper without us noticing. Though I will test this theory.’
‘Then what did happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said getting up. ‘But I’m going to find out, aren’t I?’
Through the café window Laura watched him walk out of sight down Picton Street. In small doses Liam was good to be with but the last half hour had once more proved her point: as long as he was working on a murder investigation half of him was always out there, stalking the streets, even when the other half sat opposite you wolfing down burgers.
McLusky got in his car and drove to Norton Malreward. He resented Michael Leslie for reappearing; it did not fit. The man was supposed to be dead. His continued existence contradicted all of McLusky’s predictions. So what? As the super had said, with him it was fifty-fifty. But Michael Leslie was in the wrong fifty. If he wasn’t dead then he certainly had some explaining to do.
When he got to the house it looked shuttered, all the curtains were drawn and the security lights were on. ‘It’s all fine, it’s all resolved. Really,’ said Richard Leslie. He was reluctant to let him cross the threshold but McLusky ignored it and walked in. Leslie went into confidential mode, lowering his voice. ‘I’m sure, Inspector, it’s to do with his breakdown, I think he just wandered off and fell down a hole or something and hurt himself. He doesn’t want to talk about it, understandable, really.’
‘Very. Where is he?’
‘He’s in the drawing room,’ he said, pointing towards the white double doors, which were closed. ‘But he’s had a few drinks now and I really think it’s best if he goes to bed soon and sleeps it off.’
‘I’ll just have a quick word, then. Is DC French still here, by the way?’
‘No, she was called away. No reason for her to stay, was there? Look, can’t it wait until he has recovered? He is still very shaken by the whole affair. We all are.’
‘Through here, you said?’ McLusky broke eye contact, strode past him and walked through the door.
The pitiful figure of Michael Leslie huddled near the Buddha statue, wrapped in a blue dressing gown and folded into a corner of one of the white sofas. His hair looked damp. He looked up, frowning at him as McLusky came through the door. Frowning must have hurt him since his eyebrows were both split open and scabbing over. His face was puffed up with colourful bruises, one of his eyes was completely shut from the swelling and his lips were swollen. His nose looked broken. His left hand was inexpertly bandaged. Michael Leslie was alive but found it a painful experience. It was apparent that even lifting his wine glass caused him pain.
‘Have you seen a doctor?’ McLusky asked.
There was a pause during which Michael Leslie drained his glass, then, with painful effort, refilled it. ‘Who are you?’ he asked croakily.
He showed his ID. ‘Detective Inspector McLusky. I strongly suggest you see a doctor whether you think you need one or not. What happened to you?’
‘I don’t need a policeman either. We are OK now. Everything will be fine.’
‘I am glad you think so. What happened to you?’
‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’ Speaking too seemed to cause him pain. He spoke as though through loose teeth.
‘You just left the car, not parked up but in the middle of the lane, blocking it, left the keys in the ignition, and then what?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I just had a weird moment there and ran off into the blue.’
‘Which blue was that? Where did you go?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Nobody saw you?’
He half completed an arm gesture, winced. ‘I walked across the fields, Inspector.’
‘How did you get injured?’
‘I fell down a steep bank somewhere and hit my face on a tree.’ He pulled a grim
ace of pain and drank more wine.
Definitely loose teeth, thought McLusky. Definitely lying, too. As a police officer he had lots of opportunity to see the aftermath of fights and this looked like the man had been beaten, and beaten savagely.
‘Look,’ said Richard Leslie who stood behind McLusky. ‘Can’t you see my brother is in pain, Inspector? Go up to bed, Mikey. Take the bottle with you, if you like.’
‘OK, gentlemen,’ McLusky said quietly. ‘We’ll leave it there.’ He gave Richard Leslie a friendly nod. ‘For the moment.’ He turned to the injured brother. ‘We’ll take a detailed statement as soon as it is convenient. I wish you a speedy recovery, sir.’
In the hall, Richard Leslie firmly closed the double doors to the drawing room behind him before asking: ‘When can I expect my car back?’
‘No idea,’ McLusky said cheerfully. ‘Whenever forensics are finished with it. They’re very slow. Not like the telly at all. You’ll be informed.’
‘What can forensics still want with it? I told you my brother was not very well, he’s had a breakdown. He just had a strange … moment and went walkabout.’
‘Is that what he told you or is that what you want me to believe?’
Leslie looked at him for a moment, working on his anger. ‘I don’t know what you are trying to say, Inspector, but I really think you should leave now.’
McLusky thought so too. Leslie closed the door heavily behind him. By contrast McLusky pulled the driver door of his car shut so slowly and distractedly that he had to open and shut it again to close it properly. For a moment he sat behind the wheel in the drive of the Leslies’ bland house, with the security lights bathing everything in unnatural brightness. The sun had set far beyond McLusky’s yardarm and he craved a drink. He started the engine and drove, away from Norton Malreward, towards Bristol, towards the pub. Yes, the pub would be a good place tonight. He wanted to stop thinking about the corpse floating in the Feeder Canal, about the body by the railway line and about the Leslies. Tonight, he wanted to drink a few beers and think about Laura.
One hour and two pints later, standing at the bar of the Barge Inn and waiting for his third pint of Guinness to be poured, he still hadn’t managed it. His thoughts came back to the sight of Michael Leslie’s face. When he had reached for his glass of wine he had moved like a man with broken ribs. McLusky remembered broken ribs well, could still feel the pain of breathing in, of reaching for a glass of water on the hospital beside table. That man had been worked over. By his brother on his return? No, the atmosphere was different. McLusky always ended up back at his original premise: Michael Leslie had been abducted. And let go again. Why? Because whoever dragged him from the car thought he was Richard Leslie. How was the kidnapper to know that the man driving the Jaguar was his brother Michael? Did Michael know his brother had been the target? Did he tell Richard? If Richard knew then why lie about it? Why not scream for police protection? After all, drawing your curtains and turning on your security lights wasn’t going to scare off a killer. Which reminded him: had it been checked whether Leslie had a firearm’s licence? He couldn’t remember.
Back at his table he dialled the Albany Road number. He got through to the duty officer and told him what he wanted: two officers parked outside the Leslie residence until further notice. Or until the super blew his top. He would sort out the paperwork for it tomorrow, he promised. Then McLusky picked up his pint, stopped working, and drank.
‘Oh, pants!’ It hit him like a hammer blow. Still dripping from the shower McLusky dropped his towel on the floor and stomped into his freezing cold bedroom. ‘Bugger!’ How could he have forgotten all about his laundry? He had never gone back there, had just left it sitting in the machine at the launderette! He had to get there pronto this morning and shove it in the drier. Meanwhile there was no way he was going to wear the same pair of underpants again, the very thought made him shiver. He slipped into his suit trousers, put on a nearly ironed shirt. There were no clean socks, either, he discovered.
Sockless in his shoes he noticed gratefully that the weather had changed once more and was now mild but windy, with warm air blowing in from the south. At the launderette the machine he had stuffed his clothes into the night before was empty. There were only two customers here this early, both black women in their forties who looked like sisters, sitting very close to each other and reading age-old magazines from the pile in the corner. Had they noticed what had happened to his washing?
‘No, love, they was all empty when we came,’ said one. ‘Best ring them up, perhaps they put it by somewhere safe for you.’
He rang the contact number on the laminated printout on the wall and was told categorically: ‘There was no washing left when I locked up last night. That was a silly thing to do, leave all your washing behind. You have to keep an eye on things around here. You know what it’s like, if it’s not nailed down …’
McLusky, wondering how you might successfully nail down a carrier bag full of wet washing, hung up disconsolately. All his socks, all his underwear, some shirts and tee-shirts, his favourite pair of jeans and his second favourite pair. He felt bereft.
‘No luck, love?’ commiserated one of the sisters. ‘Aah, that’s a blow. But you really have to keep an eye on your things around here, you know?’
McLusky did. The crime figures for his neighbourhood made interesting reading. He also knew that now he would have to engage in his least favourite of tasks: shopping. Naturally he would put that off until the last possible moment.
The day dragged on through meetings, past lunchtime (where he skilfully dodged the Pasta and Broccoli Bake, now relaunched as Macaroni and Calabrese au Gratin) and through an afternoon filled with report sifting, reading of witness statements and the dreaded progress report to DSI Denkhaus.
Denkhaus, however, was unexpectedly on McLusky’s side when it came to the Leslies. ‘This could be one of your better hunches,’ he said, swivelling his chair so he could throw a glance out of the window, which he did whenever he was mulling things over. ‘The wrong brother. Entirely possible. Always assuming that there really is a connection between Michael Leslie’s temporary disappearance and our two murders. What is the connection between them other than an abandoned car?’
‘I haven’t found it yet.’
‘But naturally you remain stubbornly confident that there is one.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Denkhaus swivelled some more. ‘The Leslies haven’t asked for police protection. If they have a mind to complain about a police car parked in front of their house we will have to withdraw it, you know that. No crimes have been committed or at least none reported.’
‘But until they complain we’ll keep an eye on them?’
‘Yes. I can let you have one officer to keep out there. When can you interview the injured brother?’
‘He reluctantly agreed to talk to me at his brother’s house tomorrow.’
‘We’ll discuss it again after you have taken his statement. But if he is mentally a bit wobbly, tread softly. Don’t press him too hard.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
An hour later he found himself in the men’s clothing department of Marks & Spencer’s. Clothes shopping was McLusky’s worst nightmare; he genuinely thought he preferred autopsies to having to select and try on clothes, then queue at the till to pay for them. To him it seemed to drag on forever when in reality he had spent no more than fifteen minutes in the shop and found more or less everything he needed immediately. To avoid having to do it again this decade he had nearly depleted the shop’s supplies on men’s underwear and socks, had added several shirts, an armful of tee-shirts, two black sweaters and three pairs of black jeans to the pile he now carried in his arms and could barely see over.
It was as he made his way to the nearest till that Fairfield, herself there to buy a bath towel, espied him from the other side of the escalators. Fairfield enjoyed shopping; for a start, shopping meant that she had money to spend. But even to her the
pile of clothes in McLusky’s arm looked like conspicuous consumption for a DI. Had he not just bought a huge Mercedes as well? And then she remembered what Sorbie had said about his antique Rolex: you couldn’t buy replicas of those. She shrugged and told herself to take her own advice: let it go. Perhaps he really had inherited.
The next day started mild and windy, with the firm promise of showers later. McLusky, wearing new clothes all over, drove out to Norton Malreward. Now that he had got over the shock of having lost half his wardrobe he felt quite good in his new black jeans and sweater and virginal underwear. Taking all the labels, stickers and tags off his new wardrobe had taken longer than buying them.
Even though he had made an appointment it took a long time before the front door was opened, reluctantly, by Richard Leslie. ‘I don’t seem to be able to find my brother,’ he said by way of greeting.
‘Oh?’ McLusky stepped past him. ‘Has he disappeared again?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Leslie. ‘But he was here not long ago.’
Leslie’s wife Pauline could be heard from the living room. ‘He’s hiding in the garden, the stupid childish man.’
Leslie nodded heavily and sighed, acknowledging that he had known. ‘Look, he really doesn’t want to talk to you.’
‘I’m afraid he doesn’t have a choice. Which way to the garden?’
McLusky liked the garden even less than the house. It was large and cluttered with an accumulation of features like off-the-peg statuary of the bare-breasted maiden type, pastel-coloured gazebos, clogged-up water features, sad island beds, wrought-iron arbours and uninviting cast-iron benches.
‘He’s hiding in the shed. We had one at home,’ said Leslie. ‘It was his favourite hiding place even then.’ He began to lead the way to the shed, which was half hidden behind a pond fringed with frazzled pampas grass, but McLusky waved him off.
‘It’s OK, I’ll find him. I need to speak to him alone.’
