by Peter Helton
The next morning McLusky felt that he had overdone verisimilitude by at least two pints and for the first three hours he worked at half speed, feeling irritable. More irritable even than he had already been these last few weeks. This morning he had begun to slam doors and ram drawers open and shut and hammering at his keyboard like a demented mechanical toy. He scratched his head, puffed up his cheeks. He drank too much canteen coffee, smoked by the window, ate diabetic amounts of chocolate bars. Last night in their shared cab Phil had made an ironic attempt at asking him up for coffee but McLusky had taken a lonely taxi home instead. It was not that he was immune to Phillipa Warren’s charm, a great deal of which was by then on display, but he had recently been thinking more and more of Laura, to the point where he was wondering if her being in Bristol should not be taken as an omen that perhaps they might yet get back together again. What spoke against it was that Laura had still not told him where she lived and he did not want to ask in case she refused to say. A sudden thought turned his stomach sour: what else was she not telling him? For all he knew she could be living with someone and prefer him not to know about it. Could he really expect her not to be sleeping with anyone? He himself had not exactly been celibate.
He forced himself to concentrate, paused for a burp that tasted of chocolate, coffee and hazelnuts, then grabbed the phone and made the first of many ill-tempered phone calls to all and sundry that took him all day and by the end of it left him in no doubt that the investigation was bogging down.
‘He’s getting better at breaking into houses. He no longer breaks window glass, he’s invested in a glass cutter and he’s learnt to jimmy open sash windows by releasing the catch from the outside.’
‘Progress of sorts,’ Sorbie said.
‘We now have definite fingerprints too, same ones we lifted from the last place.
‘But he’s not on file, is he?’ Sorbie said petulantly.
‘It means,’ said Fairfield irritably without looking up from her file, ‘we’ll almost certainly get a conviction.’
‘We’ll have to get him first,’ Sorbie said quietly to himself as he went to make his eighth mug of instant coffee that day. He checked his wristwatch, a sports watch with a satisfying amount of buttons of which he had been quite proud until he had seen McLusky’s classic Rolex. It was nearly six o’clock. He shot the cuff of his shirt to cover up his watch and clattered crockery and spoons and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
Fairfield read the transcript of the latest victim’s recorded statement for the second time.
Next thing I know the door bursts wide and he jumps on me, throwing me back on to the bed. He had a black stocking over his head and was holding a knife, like a small kitchen knife. He had a stocking wrapped around the grip of it, that’s what it looked like. And he let himself fall on top of me. But he didn’t do anything, he didn’t try to rape me he just pawed at me and groaned while he was doing it. He wasn’t putting the knife to my throat or threatening me with it either. It was almost as though he’d forgotten he had it, he was too busy groping me. I screamed and he put a hand over my mouth but again quite feebly. I knocked his hand away and screamed some more and he didn’t try it again, he rolled off me and I kicked him hard several times and he shot up and out of the room. I doubt I did much damage though, only caught him on the thigh. I heard him running down the stairs and I felt like running after him and hitting him with something heavy, but of course I didn’t. I had trouble dialling 999 because I was shaking badly by then. It was all so hideous, it really was like a nightmare where one minute you’re fine, the next minute terrible things are happening. I don’t think I can ever go to bed again without checking the wardrobe and under the bed first.
Fairfield drummed her fingers on the file. ‘He’s working up to it,’ she said in Sorbie’s direction.
‘Up to what?’ said Sorbie without taking his eyes of his monitor.
‘Rape. Otherwise why the knife? He didn’t use a knife before. He’s going to rape someone, Jack.’
It was Thursday lunchtime and McLusky was seconds away from leaving for the canteen when Austin knocked on his door, bearing a copy of the Bristol Herald, fresh off the press. ‘They printed it,’ he said, but his voice sounded doubtful. ‘Warren peppered the article with your name. Did you really say all that?’ He handed McLusky the paper. The story had made the front page. Below the headline Police Brand Killer Inept he read: Yet no new leads in murder probe.
‘Murder probe!’ McLusky scoffed. ‘I don’t think I have ever probed a murder, have you? Where do they get their language from?’ He scanned the article. ‘“Complete idiot”, check … “fumbling bungler”, check … “incompetent twit”, check. Yup, it’s all there. Looks like Warren is riding her hobby horse though, incompetent police and, ah yes, clueless, we’re always clueless.’
The phone rang; Austin snatched up the receiver. ‘DI McLusky’s office.’ He listened briefly. ‘He’s on his way up.’ He dropped the receiver on to the cradle. ‘His nibs wants a word.’
‘Hardly unexpected.’
Lynn Tiery waved him straight through. Denkhaus did not look happy. He was holding the same edition of the Herald as McLusky. ‘Phil Warren has some sort of grudge against us.’
‘I haven’t had time to read the article properly yet, sir.’
Denkhaus grunted. ‘You managed to plant your insults, at least. Let’s hope he reacts the way you imagined it. You are running quite a risk provoking him. The ACC was impressed, it shows dedication, but he also voiced concern for your safety. Of course if it backfires it’ll all be your fault, there’s no way we can admit to having authorized this. Shame Warren had to lace her article with the usual criticisms and horror statistics. It’s an even greater shame that most of them are true. Those are official figures. We are now having to ignore nearly fifty per cent of all reported crime, we just don’t have the time, money and resources, even if we did have the personnel.’ As the DCI warmed to his theme his gaze slid from McLusky’s face and he swivelled his chair so he could look out over the harbour area. ‘And as ever Warren refuses to see that it’s hardly our fault. Even if the service hadn’t been pared to the bone, even if we had all the officers we wanted, there’s no point in pursuing inquiries if we know the CPI won’t prosecute because there’s no chance of a conviction. Most of our crime is drug related anyway. The vast majority of burglaries and street crime are committed by drug addicts. We pick them up, the courts let them go because they promise to turn over a new leaf. And off they go to commit more crime, some on a daily basis. If we rounded up all drug addicts and kept them off the streets our crime figures would look like we’re back in nineteen fifty-eight.’ He silently mused for a moment, then snapped his attention back into the room and swivelled around to face McLusky. ‘I read this war memoir, by a Bristol man, about what it was like during the Blitz. He had an allotment and one morning he found someone had stolen three of his leeks during the night. He called the police. They came and investigated, found a boot print and took a plaster cast of it. They later matched it to the boot of a soldier who was manning a nearby anti-aircraft battery. Went to court, fined ten bob. Can you imagine what would happen if you reported three leeks stolen from your allotment today?’
‘Vividly.’
‘That’s a lost world, McLusky.’ He snapped out of his nostalgic reverie. ‘Mind you, lots of crimes committed during the blackout and the black market were shocking, spivs everywhere. All right, let’s wait and see if you’ve stirred up your man. And let’s hope he’s stupid enough to call from his home phone.’
McLusky rose. ‘I think that may be asking too much.’
‘I expect so. But, McLusky, he knows your name. That means he can find you. Be extra careful out there, won’t you?’
Fairfield broke the seal on a tin of twenty Café Crème cigars, peeled back the paper and sniffed the aroma. Not only had cartons of supermarket red made a comeback on her kitchen counter, tonight she was going back to smoking cheap cigars
from the newsagent’s. In the middle of the table lay another red rose, left without comment in front of her door. It had very little fragrance and she decided that she preferred even the aroma of cheap cigars to florist’s roses. She sat for a while without lighting up, then got to her feet, filled a glass with water and dropped the thornless, odourless rose into it. Why take it out on the flower?
Triandáphila, thirty petals, they were called in Greek, but she had never bothered to count them to see if it was true. Why should she? Stubborn. Her father had always said she was stubborn. It was a good thing to be in her job, but was it equally good in relationships? She missed Louise but she could not see it working; Dr Rennie was simply out of her league and Fairfield suspected that she took a secret pleasure in demonstrating her superior education and background. At first Louise and her beautiful Clifton flat had been like a haven, had given her the feeling that she had escaped into another, better world than her own, brighter, clearer, more sophisticated, infinitely more pleasurable and exciting. But soon it began to make her feel inferior, gauche even. She lit one of the cigars and blew a cloud of smoke towards the rose. These were honest little cigars and she wouldn’t have to worry about bankrupting herself by smoking them. And drinking the Californian red from the carton was no hardship either. No, she had made up her mind, she would ask for her keys back. Not that Louise had used them often. She had surprised her with breakfast one Sunday morning and on one occasion Fairfield had walked into her kitchen to find a bottle of wine, a bouquet of flowers and a card whose message had made her blush. Still made her blush. But Louise preferred to spend time at her own place and neighbourhood and she had never reciprocated by offering her the keys to her Clifton flat. Now she was letting herself into the communal hall to leave roses on her doorstep. It’s your move, they seemed to say, give in, come back. But she had made up her mind. She would call her and ask for her keys back. She refilled her glass from the tap on the carton. But not tonight, she was on her fourth glass and she found Louise’s voice hard enough to resist when she was sober.
McLusky was walking towards his office when an excited Dearlove came skidding around the corner. ‘Sir, the desk have someone on the phone for you, they think it’s him.’
McLusky sprinted to his office, snatched up the receiver and called down to the desk. ‘McLusky. Put him on.’
Sergeant Hayes was apologetic. ‘He’s gone, sir. Hung up. It took too long, I expect, and he got suspicious. We tried everywhere for you, your office, incident room, your mobile and your radio. Where were you?’
‘A man must be allowed to occasionally visit the toilet.’
‘Well, perhaps you should have, you know, told us.’
‘You want me to announce my bowel movements to the front desk? If it was him he’ll call back.’ He put the receiver down but secretly he was not so sure. Had he messed up his one chance to make contact with the killer?
From then on McLusky expected the phone to ring at any moment and carried his radio and phone with him even when all he was doing was to go across to the incident room or to make himself coffee at the CID room kettle. He found it hard to concentrate and when the phone in his office shrilled in his ears it actually made him start. He snatched up the receiver. ‘McLusky.’
‘Hayes. He’s back.’
‘Put him on.’
SIXTEEN
‘Putting you through now,’ said Sgt Hayes in a level tone as though he was connecting killers with CID every day.
When McLusky heard the line open with a lot of background noise he identified himself. ‘Detective Inspector McLusky, who is that?’
‘Very funny, Inspector.’ McLusky’s mind started to analyze the sounds in his ear: mobile phone, traffic noise, male voice, thirties/forties/fifties, British, possibly white, possibly local. ‘I expect you are recording this?’
‘Not at the moment, would you like me to?’
‘You really are a clown, then.’ The voice sounded aggrieved. ‘I have things to tell you. I want to set the record straight. But not like this.’ A car horn blared. ‘I’m sure the whole police station is listening in and you’ll be trying to trace the call. Give me your mobile number.’
‘You want my mobile number?’ asked McLusky inanely. He was trying to stall him until he had a better idea but none came.
‘Yes, you arse, your mobile number. Hurry up with it.’
McLusky thought he could hear the man sucking on a cigarette. ‘Hang on, I don’t know it by heart,’ he told him and spooled through his mobile’s display until he found it. He read the eleven-digit number out.
‘Got that,’ said the voice, now almost bored. ‘Got to go now. But I’ll call you.’ The line went dead.
Hayes’ line opened up again. ‘Did you get all that?’ McLusky asked him.
‘It’s logged and recorded if you need it.’
‘I doubt it, he didn’t give much away.’ Then he called Denkhaus. ‘He took me by surprise, he wants to talk to me on my mobile.’
‘Yes, I just listened to the recording. He sounds local. Not enough to analyze the voice yet. Also sounds like he was outside, there was a lot of traffic. OK, go straight to Technical Support and get them to set up your mobile to record all conversations and make sure you keep the thing charged.’ Flat mobile batteries, like mysterious Airwave malfunctions, were the standard excuses when officers did not want to be found.
At Technical Support a technician with surfer looks and earrings listened to McLusky’s request, nodded and took charge of his phone. He opened up the back, plugged it into a laptop and started hammering on the computer’s keyboard, each time hitting the enter key with a flourish. Then he exchanged SD cards, replaced the back on the mobile and handed it back to McLusky, together with a micro SD card. ‘I took all your personal stuff off and put it on there. You’ll need to get yourself a new mobile for your private business.’
‘Oh, marvellous.’
‘Just a tick,’ said the technician. He dived down into a blue plastic stacking crate full of cables and phone parts and came back with a pay-as-you-go phone and charger. ‘It’s crap but it’s on the house.’
‘It’s also bright pink.’
‘There is that. You get what you pay for. The sooner you catch your man the sooner you’ll have your nice phone to yourself again.’
McLusky would have thought it impossible that his mood could sink lower or his fuse shorten further, yet as he left Technical Support he felt as though his energy was draining from him with every step he took. In his jacket pocket the modified phone, now for the sole use of the killer, seemed heavy with malice, weighing him down. Would he call again? When would he call again? As he haunted the corridors of Albany Road Station, McLusky felt like an unexploded bomb, a bomb whose fuse was set to go off when he reached maximum tiredness and frustration.
The Leslie house was still being watched and it appeared all three of the inmates were staying at home and out of sight. McLusky was itching to have another go at Michael Leslie to get him to cooperate but in his present mood he could not see himself charming the man into it. Wherever he went colleagues asked or just raised questioning eyebrows: had he called yet? He thought it quite as irritating as the wait itself.
McLusky knew what he needed and he knew where to get it. He swung himself into his car and zoomed down to Picton Street. He parked on the double yellow in front of the Bristolian, let the counter staff furnish him with a fragrant cappuccino, then took it outside. He sniffed the coffee, sipped froth, then lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He could feel the knot in his stomach begin to unravel after his second sip of real coffee.
When his mobile chimed he nearly spilled his coffee in his haste to get to it. ‘DI McLusky.’
‘Are you alone?’ asked the voice. There was traffic noise as before but this time it sounded like he was speaking from a moving vehicle.
‘I’m alone.’ He looked around him. There was no one too close to him. ‘You know you shouldn’t talk on a mobile while driving.’
He ignored the remark. ‘You’re in your office?’
‘No, I’m sitting outside a café.’
‘Café? You don’t have time to hang out in cafés, not with all these murders happening.’ A joyless chuckle.
Just a mobile phone voice, he could be anyone, anywhere. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be just another crank. We always get them. Already two people have called us to say they killed Steadman and Bothwick. Tell me about Michael Leslie.’
‘You leave Michael Leslie alone. He is a good man, a God-fearing charitable man. He swore not to help you. And he forgave me.’
‘And you took his word?’
‘He swore on the bible.’
‘Your bible?’
‘His little bible.’
‘OK, I believe you.’
‘That’s big of you.’
He thought he could hear the man at the other end inhaling smoke. ‘Now tell me, why?’
‘You really do think I’m stupid. I can’t tell you that now; that would immediately give it away. If you knew why, you would soon find out who I am and I can’t allow that, not until I’m finished with the wankers.’
‘Finished? You mean you will kill again?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you.’
‘Why did you let Michael Leslie go?’
‘I wanted his bloody brother, not him. And I couldn’t bear to make the same mistake twice. I make mistakes, I admit it. But I’m not a bloody moron, I’ll prove it to you. For a start, don’t bother trying to trace this mobile. It’s nicked. I’m good at nicking mobiles so I can afford to chuck them away when I’m done talking. Well, I hope you’re learning something, Inspector.’
‘Like what?’ McLusky asked but the line went dead.
Angrily he shoved the phone back in his pocket. He had learnt nothing, he had got no nearer to discovering his identity. He was no further toward knowing what connected Bothwick, Steadman and Leslie. He had messed it up ‘What?’ He dug out the mobile and fumbled until he got to the recording app, and played the conversation back. Out here in the open it sounded tinny, far away, improbable even. There it was. And I couldn’t bear to make the same mistake twice. I make mistakes, I admit it. But I’m not a bloody moron.
