by Peter Helton
‘We went out for fish and chips.’
‘Food poisoning!’ Hayes marvelled. ‘Every CID officer for miles around is now off sick? For how long?’
McLusky threw up his arms. ‘Who knows? But until they recover it’ll be me, Jane here and the super, I suppose.’
Hayes shook his head slowly. ‘Denkhaus has been taken ill as well.’
‘How? He wasn’t at the seminar.’
‘It was him who organized the caterers to come in. Ordered a couple of rounds of prawn sandwiches for himself and his secretary. Both taken ill.’
‘Marvellous. Bloody marvellous.’
Hayes beamed at them. ‘I had a Pot Noodle.’
Fairfield thought she had never heard so much retching or seen so much puke in her life. Every time she thought it was safe to leave the cubicle her innards convinced her otherwise. She felt she had been in here for hours and felt utterly wretched and continuously sick. For a long while the cubicles to either side of her had been occupied by other vomiting wretches but it had gone quieter now. Two obviously unaffected women were chatting at the wash basins, uniform or civilians, Fairfield surmised. She paid little attention to what was being said until she heard one of them say something that electrified her. Already on the way out of the toilets one of the women said: ‘But I did something out of the ordinary today, I gave my tights to a complete stranger. His van had broken down.’ The door closed behind the women and she heard no more.
Fairfield struggled out of her cubicle and ran after them as fast as her stomach cramps and nausea allowed. ‘Wait!’ she called after the two who were already disappearing around a corner in the corridor. The women looked back, stopped and gave her a quizzical look. Both were civilian staff. Fairfield leant weakly against the wall and waved them back.
‘You do look terrible,’ said the older one. ‘Is it the food poisoning? Do you need help?’
Fairfield weakly shook her head. ‘It’s not that. I heard you talking. Giving your tights to a stranger …’
‘Yes, that was me,’ said the younger one. ‘On my way to work this morning. He flagged me down. His van had broken down, the fan belt. He offered to buy my tights off me.’
‘Camper van?’
‘Yes, old-fashioned one.’
‘Twenties, shoulder-length hair? American accent?’
‘Canadian, actually. My sister-in-law is Canadian, I can tell the difference.’
‘Bastard.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Can you remember anything else about him?’
‘Nice van, cosy. He let me take my tights off inside, there was traffic about. Smelled a bit strong but nice.’
Fairfield found talking difficult; she felt faint and thirsty. ‘Smelled of what?’
‘All sorts. Cooking. And deodorant.’
Fairfield dug around in her handbag and withdrew the body spray. She squirted a jet of it into the corridor. ‘This one?’
‘Yes, that’s the one, a bit nauseating, don’t you think?’
Fairfield nodded weakly and swayed back to the toilets, heaving.
McLusky stood in the CID room, staring at the empty desks.
He had found two civilian operators keeping their heads down at their computer terminals, counting their blessings and the minutes until their shifts ended. It was preternaturally quiet on the entire floor.
Austin stood a little forlorn, scratching the tip of his nose. He tried to strike a positive note. ‘They’ll all be right as rain tomorrow, I expect.’
‘They had better be, because right now Bristol CID is more or less you and me!’
His mobile chimed. He answered it. ‘Hi Kat, are you all right? Sorry to hear that. That bad?’ He listened for a while, then said: ‘Hang on, I’ll write all that down.’ He grabbed a pen and note pad. ‘Shoot.’ He took notes for what seemed an age to McLusky, then said: ‘We’ll look into it as soon as poss. Get well soon, OK?’
‘Was that Kat? What does she want?’
‘Mainly she wants to stop puking. She’s got the bug bad and she says she can’t raise Sorbie. But she thinks she has just got a lead on the tights man they’ve been chasing, don’t ask me how. Here.’ He handed McLusky the note pad.
The inspector took one look at it and handed it back without interest. ‘I can’t read your writing anyway. Underwear thieves can wait, we’ve got our hands full.’
Austin read from his notes. ‘She has a description at last. Shoulder-length fair hair, drives a classic VW camper van, wears lots of body spray called Fatal Attraction, and he’s Canadian.’
‘Bugger me!’ McLusky shot out of his chair.
Austin looked over his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘I think I’ve met the bastard.’
Neil Shand was angry. He gripped the steering wheel of his Range Rover as though he were trying to strangle it and accelerated hard, the growl of the four-litre engine expressing well what he felt. Bloody tenants! When the agent had told him about the state of the flat he had to go and see for himself because the house in Filton was where it had all started, the first property he had bought, and the flat in question was the very place he had occupied as a live-in landlord, twenty-five years ago. And the bastards had wrecked it. They had walked off with the copper from the immersion heater and had stolen the electric cooker. They had even taken up half the floorboards and pinched those too, God knew what for, the wash basin in the bathroom hung off the wall and the toilet bowl was cracked. How did you crack a toilet bowl? What did these people eat, rocks? After that he had knocked on the other doors in the building and asked questions, angry questions: hadn’t they noticed the bastards were stripping the flat? He had demanded to look around their flats and found disgusting mess in most of them. Why did people want to live like that?
Shand was glad when he left Filton behind. It was dark and a fine rain was falling and he found it all depressing rather than nostalgic. He was secretly proud of his humble roots and his achievements: twenty-eight properties in the area now and he had recently moved into one of the finest harbourside penthouses money could buy. Elaine was no longer with him, which meant he had no one to share it with, yet still, quite an achievement.
But those idiots. They didn’t ventilate the place properly to save on heating and let sooty black mould spread around the kitchen and bathroom. That was the problem with letting to people on benefits, they couldn’t afford to look after a place properly and now with the changes in benefits he had twice as many people behind with the rent. It was more hassle than it was worth and his mind was made up, he would give all of them notice.
Shand breathed a sigh of relief as he drove slowly along Anchor Road. His new home. This is where he belonged now. He had calmed down at last, his decision made. No more tenants on benefits, ever. Get rid of them. He would be fair, he’d give them fair notice, but from now on it was working people only. He indicated to turn into the entrance of the car park. A shabby van had at that very moment decided to pull away from the kerb and he waited for it to pass. But the idiot driver suddenly turned the thing towards him as though trying to execute a U-turn just there. Shand worked his horn but the van did not stop until it was no more than a few inches from his front bumper. He gave a low growl of frustration and anger. The world really was full of idiots. The door of the van opened and a man climbed out. ‘Don’t get out, move away from there,’ Shand muttered to himself as the driver, who had the hood of his top up against the rain, came to his driver window. ‘What now?’ Shand let down the window. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ he barked at the man.
He had expected an argument but not the gun. He had never in his life seen a real handgun and the unreality of the situation held his fear at bay for a few seconds. ‘There’s no need for that, take the bloody car!’ He had always thought that resisting in a robbery was a stupid thing to do. He slid off the seatbelt and got out.
The man jabbed the gun hard under his chin and Shand felt himself go rigid with fear. The man brought his
face close to his. ‘I don’t want your fucking car you wanker. Make one noise and I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Get into the van. Lie on the floor.’ Shand did as he was asked, his heart hammering, his mind racing as the door slid noisily shut behind him. What could he want? His abductor was breathing loudly near his ear as he looped a plastic cord round his hand and yanked his hand back, then tied it across his other wrist, pulling so hard that a yelp of pain escaped him. ‘I told you to shut the fuck up, didn’t I?’ His hair was grabbed roughly from behind. Five, six, seven times his face was smashed into the metal floor with such force that he thought he was going to black out. Then a rag was forced into his mouth and strips of adhesive tape slapped over it. Finally a sack was forced over his head. ‘That’s you done, Shand,’ said the voice near his ear. ‘We’re going to have ourselves such fun.’
I’m dead, Shand thought, it’s him and he’ll kill me like the others. And I don’t even know why. Nothing makes sense. It’s all nonsense. Life is nonsense.
‘He’s been attacking people in their home,’ Austin said. ‘Fairfield says he’s working up to a rape, she’s sure of it.’
‘Laura.’ McLusky’s voice was flat with dread. ‘The bastard is a mate of Laura’s.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Year above her. But I’ve seen her with him, they go on digs together.’ He spooled through his mobile, found Laura’s number and dialled. ‘She’s even kipped in his van.’
‘Fairfield said he uses his van to get women to give him their stockings, pretends his fan belt is busted.’
McLusky wrinkled his nose in distaste. Laura answered. ‘Liam! Wonders never cease.’ A lot of background noise, voices, clinking of glass.
‘Where are you, Laura? In a pub?’
‘No, I’m at home. Having a bit of a do here with friends from college. Apropos of nothing. Did you want something?’
‘Is Ethan there? The Canadian guy?’
‘Liam, what is this? Have you been drinking?’
‘Is he there?’
‘He is, but you seem to have entirely the wrong idea. He’s just a mate.’
‘Give me your address, Laura, I need to see you.’
‘Well, now is probably not a good time, I wouldn’t be able to give you my undivided.’
‘Just give me your address, Laura.’ He insisted.
‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’ But she spelled it out for him. McLusky wrote it down and abruptly terminated the call. Austin looked at him questioningly. ‘It’s all right, she’s with lots of people but he’s there. Shared house in Redland, a party. Let’s go.’
McLusky drove through the rain without saying a word. Redland. So near, and yet how far apart had they drifted that only now he found out her address or the circumstances of her digs. A shared house, how very studenty. McLusky had never lived in a shared house. As a student he had lived in a basement bedsit, alone, often drinking alone, even then.
‘We’re going to rain on her party,’ said Austin. ‘You’ll be popular.’
‘Yes. I bet he’s the life and soul. It’s up there.’ McLusky was driving along a street of large Victorian terraced houses, cars, scooters lining both kerbs. ‘Not a bad area. See? His camper van is right there, we’ll need to pick that up.’
McLusky pulled up next to it. It had been shoehorned between two small studenty-looking hatchbacks. ‘I’ll block him in, get out on my side.’
‘You’ll be blocking the entire road,’ Austin objected.
‘So? Get traffic to collect the camper and get it to forensics.’
While Austin made the call McLusky stood in the street listening to the music drifting across from the house. He did not recognize the tune, if it had one. Light spilled out from the large ground-floor window, all other windows were brightly lit up. A tangle of bicycles beside the door.
‘D’you realize—’ he fumed – ‘we won’t be able to turn down anything at all now until the rest of Avon & Somerset stops puking? We have a triple killer to find and here we are going after kids with an underwear fetish.’ He rang the bell but could not hear it ring over the noise, so hammered open-handed on the front door. It was yanked open by a teenager with a freckled, slightly sweaty face and a freshly pierced eyebrow that looked infected. He was holding a can of lager. McLusky showed him his ID. ‘Is it about the noise? It’s still early, give us a break. Who complained?’
‘No one complained. Where’s Laura?’
‘Who’s Laura?’
Once inside McLusky left Austin as a dark sentinel by the door. The place was not as crowded as the noise levels had suggested. About forty people were standing in the kitchen door, along the hall, on the stairs and sitting on every available surface in the mostly candle-lit sitting room, where he found the source of the thumping music. Only one girl was dancing by herself in front of one of the speakers, holding a bottle of beer, oblivious to her surroundings. He scanned the faces, could see neither Laura nor his quarry; he pushed on through the hall, earning himself curious looks. Laura and Ethan were standing in the kitchen where a long kitchen table held both drinks and food offerings. They were part of a group of six, all women apart from the Canadian who visibly blanched when he looked up and spotted McLusky bearing down on them. Laura saw him too. She wore an ensemble of clothes that blended in easily with the dress code of multi-coloured ethnic, charity-shop chic and trendy trainers mix that everyone else was wearing.
She smiled thinly, with tiny shakes of her head. ‘You’re a marvel. Grab yourself a beer, then.’
As McLusky approached the group Ethan tried to slip away towards the door but he flung one arm out to block the young man’s path. ‘Oh no you don’t. Stay right where you are because it’s you I want.’ He flashed his ID at him. ‘I’m Detective Inspector McLusky. What’s your surname, pal?’ he asked.
‘Gray.’
‘Ethan Gray, I’m arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault, breaking and entering, and burglary. You do not have to say anything …’
Gray took off with explosive speed, nearly pushing a girl to the ground as he shoved past the table to the door. There were cries of dismay and annoyance coming from the hall, then a brief commotion ending in a heavy thump. McLusky guessed rightly that Gray had run into the hairy arms of DS Austin. He went to check and saw the DS pressing his face against the front door while cuffing him. ‘Caution him,’ McLusky called over the music, ‘he ran before I’d finished arresting him.’ When he turned back into the kitchen the whole room was staring at him as though he was the most repulsive thing they had ever laid eyes on. The kitchen emptied of people.
Laura crossed to the table and angrily yanked open a can of industrial lager. ‘Ethan? Him? You’re sure about this?’
‘Pretty sure.’ He helped himself to a can of beer. ‘You don’t think I concocted it because I’m jealous?’
Laura sighed. ‘No, I suppose not.’ She held his eyes. ‘But are you, though?’
‘Am I sure?’
‘No, not that.’ She smiled. ‘Are you jealous?’
McLusky helped himself to a can of beer before answering. ‘A bit. No longer though.’
Twelve hours later in his office, McLusky found it hard to concentrate on what he was reading. Images of Laura kept intruding. He had only been able to stay for a few precious minutes but found himself going over every moment of it in his mind. Until last night he had always seen Laura in the context of their old life together. Even after she had moved to Bristol he had kept imagining her in the flat they had shared in Southampton. Now she had come dangerously alive for him and he felt like a human compass with Laura being north. Last night he had stood by his bedroom window and stared towards Redland, had thought he could feel her being out there.
He tore his thoughts away from last night, logged off the network and left his office. This morning not one of the buffet casualties had made it in to work, three had been hospitalized. The catering company was being investigated while the regular canteen staff had decided
to call a halt to the strike and were returning to work today. McLusky barely took any notice. At the CID room he stood in the door until Austin had finished the phone call he was making, then told him he was going out. ‘I’m having another go at Michael Leslie.’
‘Take your bible.’
‘I’m taking forensic pictures of David Lamb’s body. He can stick those in his bible as a reminder.’
‘I thought you were going to go easy on him.’
‘Compared to what I want to do to him, that’s kid glove stuff.’
At the Leslie’s home in Norton Malreward Mrs Leslie came to the door and made apologetic hand gestures. ‘I’m afraid you had a wasted journey, Inspector. Michael has decided to move on. He has left.’
McLusky squinted into the sunshine for a few seconds, swallowed his anger and said quietly: ‘I spoke to you not an hour ago. You said he was here.’
‘He has left since then. He decided to go back up north.’
There was no sign of Richard Leslie’s Jaguar. ‘Where is your husband? Giving him a lift to the station?’
‘My husband is at work. Michael left the way he came, by bicycle.’
‘All the way up to … Bradford, wasn’t it? You said he was half starved when he got here, how’s he going to survive? You gave him money?’
‘Enough to cycle to the moon.’
‘You paid him to leave.’
She nodded. ‘Should have done it ages ago.’
‘How long ago did he leave?’
Pauline Leslie sighed. ‘Can you promise me you won’t bring him back?’
‘Promise.’
‘About five minutes ago.’ She pointed down the lane. ‘He went that way.’
Mindful that every blind bend could be hiding a religious man with cracked ribs wobbling about on a bicycle, McLusky drove carefully up the sunny single-track lane with the windows rolled down. After only a few minutes he had caught up with him. Michael Leslie had just struggled to the top of a rise. His bicycle was an old-fashioned one, with a rear-view mirror, mudguards, panniers and a rack piled high with bag, sleeping bag and odds and ends. The panniers were bulging and Michael Leslie was sweating. He stopped at the top of the rise and looked stony-faced when he recognized McLusky who had driven past and then blocked the road. Leslie tried to wheel his bicycle past him but McLusky laid a hand on his handlebar. Like a stubborn child Leslie pushed against him for a while without meeting his eyes, then desisted. ‘There is nothing else to say, Inspector. Everything is still the way it was.’
