A Good Way to Go

by Peter Helton

  Leslie flinched when the inspector whipped a large photograph from his jacket and held it up to him. ‘Not for him it isn’t. Nor for his wife and two children. Because you won’t help us.’

  ‘No, not because I won’t help you. God saved me and my brother from him. Perhaps that was a godless man. It is not my job to catch criminals. That is your job.’

  ‘I need you to help me.’

  Michael Leslie met his eyes at last. ‘Are you saying that without me you won’t be able to catch him?’

  McLusky barely hesitated. ‘Yes, that’s what I am saying. You are the only one who saw him and survived.’

  ‘You’re a bad liar, Inspector.’

  ‘He’ll kill again. Do you really want that on your conscience?’

  ‘But it won’t be on my conscience. It is not me who is doing the killing and it is not my job to prevent him from killing again. I have prayed for him.’

  ‘I need your help,’ McLusky insisted. He felt like shaking him, hitting him.

  Leslie grabbed at McLusky’s hand and prised it off the handle bar. McLusky let go and Leslie pushed past him. ‘I swore an oath on the bible.’

  ‘Do you really believe you will go to hell if you break it?’

  ‘Yes!’ Leslie was getting back on his bike.

  ‘Then do it! Break your oath and go to hell for it and save innocent lives!’

  Leslie made no answer and started pedalling downhill, gathering speed.

  ‘Nice day for a bike ride, Michael!’ McLusky called after him. He flung the pictures of Lamb’s body through the window into his car and thumped the roof with his fist until it hurt.

  NINETEEN

  McLusky let himself fall on to his desk chair and lit a cigarette. He thought he could possibly spew smoke without the aid of tobacco, since his anger smouldered unabated. He opened the door of his desk and reached for the bottle of Glenmorangie that had survived two years of Bristol CID. It was a litre bottle a suspect had left behind and it had been helping Austin and McLusky celebrate the small triumphs of their jobs. The fact that after two years it was still half full seemed an adequate symbol of how he felt about CID work. He uncorked the bottle, put his nose to the neck and inhaled deeply. Then he returned the cork to the bottle and the bottle to the bottom of his desk. McLusky thought of it as incentivizing. The dread of a failed investigation now hung permanently in the air. He stared at the prepared mobile reserved for the killer and hoped it would not ring now. He had a few things to tie up at Albany Road but after that he intended to spend his time in St Augustine’s Parade, phone in one hand, handcuffs in the other. It was the desk phone that rang. It was Sergeant Hayes; he had the ACC on the phone.

  Anderson launched into the one-sided conversation with the gusto of a man unaccustomed to being interrupted or contradicted. ‘I must congratulate you on apprehending the sexual deviant, Gray. Canadian, is he? Let’s hope we can deport him. They’re not the kind who are cured by prison, he’ll only pick up where he left off when he gets out. Most come out more perverse than they went in. Well done indeed, McLusky. No need for false modesty,’ he said when McLusky tried to protest that his involvement had been marginal. ‘Dreadful business, that food bug, quite serious, I believe. Lucky you and your sergeant were immune to the bug. You have CSI Denkhaus’ full confidence and I’m putting you in charge of this investigation until he or DCI Gaunt return to duty. Are there any new developments?’

  ‘There’s quite a lot of forensics outstanding, tyre marks etc.’

  ‘Good, good. Good work, McLusky, carry on.’

  When he stepped out into the corridor it felt as though the missing CID officers had taken all the oxygen with them. If he did not get out of this place he was going to suffocate. He stood in the door of the CID room, for a moment feeling hopeless. Austin sensed him standing there, finished typing the sentence he had started, then looked up. ‘How did you get on with Michael Leslie?’

  ‘Our god-fearing witness is pedalling up north with all the answers in his back pocket.’

  ‘He’s leaving? Did you speak to him?’

  ‘He won’t talk. He has a good line in glib religious answers.’

  ‘Charge him with obstruction?’

  ‘Waste of time. Denkhaus thought we could compel him but he’d end up playing the martyr. He’s too unstable.’

  ‘Still no forensics on Lamb.’

  ‘How are the relatives taking it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Did you not have the feeling they were quite a loose knit family? Anyway, they haven’t given any statements, the press are camped on their doorstep of course but they’re relatively cushioned out there. Lots of pictures of the house in the paper and speculation and some unkind comments.’ He patted a folded-up copy of the Herald on his desk. ‘A Dauphin deli van was spotted driving in and the Herald practically accuses his family of celebrating.’

  ‘Shocking.’ McLusky remembered having similar unkind thoughts when he witnessed the upmarket food delivery at the Steadman house after Barbara Steadman’s death. What did we expect them to do, live off burgers as a sign of grief? McLusky made a show of patting his jacket and held up his airwave radio. ‘I’m going out, everything’s switched on and working.’ Austin was just about to ask whether McLusky might share with him where he was going when McLusky added: ‘Oh yeah, and I just had a phone call from the ACC, apparently we are flavour of the month, well done on catching Gray.’

  ‘Fairfield’s going to love that.’

  ‘I tried to tell him but you know Anderson. But Denkhaus will give credit where it’s due. Oh, and I’m now in charge.’

  Austin’s face lit up. ‘What, did he make you acting DCI?’

  ‘Nah, Anderson’s not that mad.’

  McLusky drove to a large supermarket across the river and went shopping: a baguette, some sliced bread, a tub of margarine, bottles of water and fruit juice, sliced cheese, sliced ham. Also a selection of mini cheeses, muesli bars and bags of peanuts. ‘Looks like a picnic,’ suggested the cheerful checkout girl. On his way out he stocked up on cigarettes, then he poured his purchases on to the back seat of the Mercedes and drove back into the centre, to St Augustine’s parade. In one of the largest bus stop bays he parked and turned off the engine, then called the CCTV centre. ‘Yes, we can see you. We’ll try and keep this line free for you. How long are you prepared to stay there?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ As long as it bloody takes, thought McLusky, as he terminated the call and reached for the baguette.

  Three hours later he felt less enthusiastic about his vigil. He had informed traffic division about it but bus drivers were unenthusiastic about finding a huge black Mercedes in the bay and several traffic wardens had tried to move him on. He was covered in breadcrumbs from the baguette and since he had no knife there were now margarine stains and bits of cheese crumb everywhere. He felt slightly sick because he had started eating from boredom. He needed to use the toilet. Listening to so much of his old music had made him feel queasy with regrets and nostalgia for the past and he was tired of his own company. McLusky had been on several surveillance operations in the past but then at least there had been something or someone to watch and usually an equally bored colleague. All he could see now was the endless senseless milling about of people. He was close to the statue of Neptune and he was sick of looking at that too. When it had stood by the waterside he had quite liked it, now it annoyed him intensely. At regular intervals the open-top buses crawled by and each time he lowered the window to catch snatches of the commentary droning from the PA system, buried under traffic noise. After a while noise was practically all he noticed, noise and movement and the stink of car exhausts. His thoughts drifted away from St Augustine’s, across the river, beyond the city boundaries to the birdsong and the budding trees. Could it be that he was falling out of love with city life?

  His mobile chimed but it was Austin on the little pink plastic one. ‘I think we may have another one.’ When McLusky did not answer for a few heartbeats he sai
d: ‘Are you there, Liam?’

  ‘I’m here. A body?’

  ‘No. Abandoned Range Rover in Anchor Road. Keys in the ignition.’

  ‘Anchor Road? Any witnesses? No, don’t even say it, no one noticed a damn thing as usual. Whose car?’

  ‘Registered to a Neil Shand, address in Anchor Road. In fact his car was found outside his address, a posh penthouse in a riverside development.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him, he’s a big landlord, he’s got properties all over, a lot of it neglected, and some of them death traps. It was in the Herald. He’ll have plenty of enemies.’

  ‘Am I meeting you down there?’

  ‘God, no, I know what a Range Rover looks like. You go.’ A city tour bus growled past with the commentary turned up loud.

  ‘You’re in St Augustine’s, I can hear the spiel about the statue. Sounds just like the recording. That’s quite creepy.’

  ‘Creep away, Jane. Keep me posted. I’m in a bus stop outside a travel agent’s.’

  Less well known to the press than McLusky, DS Austin enjoyed a brief moment of anonymity when he arrived in Anchor Road, but it did not last long. The nationals were happy to run with a series of abductions and violent killings and the extra spice of most of Bristol CID being out of action made it the perfect story. Officers had been drafted in from elsewhere in the Avon & Somerset area but only emergency work was being done. The prognosis was that three or four days should see most of the affected officers return. Reporters fired questions at him as he passed the scrum of them. He wondered why they always did that since they never provoked an answer. In the meantime Austin felt almost lonely without McLusky barking at all and sundry. Austin felt capable, thought he was a good officer, but he did not think he was ready to be in charge. This however looked so familiar he thought he could do it in his sleep.

  ‘If this is what I think it is,’ he told SOCO when they arrived, ‘then there’ll be bugger all on Shand’s car.’ Even as the words left his mouth he could hear McLusky’s voice in his head, felt as though the DI was speaking through him, using him as a medium. ‘I don’t think our man even breathed on it,’ he added.

  The riverside development contained enough flats to keep them busy with knocking on doors but he thought he could already hear McLusky’s voice saying something like and none of them will have seen a damn thing because they were all staring at their tellies. But at least, he thought, there’ll be CCTV. He called McLusky. ‘This time we’ll have CCTV. Might throw something up.’

  ‘I’m not holding my breath but it’s different. All the others were snatched where there was none at all. Perhaps he’s in a hurry. Though it’s not because he feels we’re closing in on him, I’m sure, because he must know that we’re not.’

  Austin turned his back on the SOCOs swarming around the Range Rover and entered Shand’s building. He rode the lift up to the top floor where he knew Ian Jackson, the caretaker, was waiting for him with the spare keys to Shand’s penthouse.

  ‘I must ask you to stay outside, Mr Jackson,’ Austin told him as he received the keys.

  The caretaker was a thin man in his forties, with an unfashionable haircut, dressed in jeans, trainers and a blue shirt with the third button missing. ‘If all you wanted was the keys,’ he complained, ‘then why did you have me stand around here for half an hour?’

  ‘I did want to ask you a few questions,’ Austin said. ‘When did you last see Mr Shand?’

  ‘Couple of days ago? In the morning, I think.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does, erm, did Mr Shand have many visitors?’

  ‘Not at all. He was a bit antisocial, if you ask me. Could barely bring himself to acknowledge people. Rich and grumpy, that one. Hardly went out, had his food delivered, looking down on the rest of the town from his penthouse.’

  ‘Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around lately?’

  Jackson scratched at a spot on his neck. ‘Can’t say I did. We have CCTV in the lobby and the lifts, it would show.’

  ‘I’ll need to see the footage of, let’s say the last three days, for starters.’

  ‘I can arrange that.’

  Austin pulled on gloves and let himself in. He took three steps into the hall, then stopped, took out his mobile and called the SOCO team leader. ‘We’ll need complete forensics up here, top floor of the building. He’s been in here.’ While speaking he had taken a few more tentative steps forward so he could see into the large, bright reception room. ‘Holy moly!’ He terminated the call and called McLusky.

  Only reluctantly had McLusky abandoned his lookout post at St Augustine’s to inspect Shand’s penthouse. Now he stood in the centre of the living room, hands buried deep in his pockets, with a look of disgust on his face. The room stank of alcohol. Everything he saw irritated him. The place had been trashed but, he noted, in a quiet way. Leather sofas and armchairs disembowelled and paintings slashed; table tops had been scored and scratched, plants decapitated, glass decanters of whisky, gin and vodka emptied on to the carpets. It was the kind of destruction you could wreak without alerting the neighbours. On one wall, two-foot-high black spray-painted letters promised ONE LESS WANKER.

  ‘The interesting one’s through here,’ Austin said.

  Reluctantly the DI followed him into the kitchen. Before it had been messed up it had been an ultra-luxurious affair with a central island, six-burner gas cooker and every conceivable gadget. Now it had been not so much destroyed as vandalized. Across four doors of the kitchen units had been scrawled FUCK YOU MACLUSKY. The legend was surrounded by splashes of ketchup, sprayed from a squeezy bottle.

  He looked at it dispassionately. ‘He can’t spell my name. You’d have thought he’d get that right at least. Lend me your mobile, Jane.’

  ‘What’s wrong with yours?’

  ‘I’m using a crap plastic one that doesn’t send pictures.’

  Austin surrendered his iPhone and McLusky took a picture of the writing on the wall, then sent it to Phil Warren at the Herald with the caption ‘Moron can’t even spell. Killer of low intelligence. Print it, McLusky’, then handed the mobile back.

  Not long afterwards Austin’s mobile rang. He answered it, listened, then said: ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Austin, DI McLusky used my phone, it’s genuine.’ He put his mobile away. ‘Warren checking.’

  ‘How unexpectedly professional of her. It smells terrible in here.’ In his car he had eaten too much cheese and ham out of boredom and now felt nauseated by the smells of spilled bottle sauces, alcohol and emptied pickle jars. ‘He’s definitely branching out, he’s not done this before.’

  ‘Didn’t have much chance with the others. Shand lived alone. But if he came up here he’ll be caught on CCTV. I’ll get on to it straight away.’ Austin left to find the caretaker.

  McLusky puffed up his cheeks and exhaled slowly, then shook his head. ‘Waste of bloody time. He’s not a moron at all.’

  The caretaker’s office was a windowless hole at the back of the ground-floor service area. The footage Austin checked with Jackson was in monochrome and made tedious viewing. They were limiting themselves to the last twenty-four hours but even speeded up it threatened to send Austin into a coma. People came, people went, singly, in couples. ‘Resident,’ Jackson commented each time. He put names to them. ‘Visitors, seen them before,’ he commented when an elderly couple rang a doorbell and were buzzed in. They were moving into night time. At exactly 10.30 pm a man appeared, wearing a hooded top, using keys to gain entry. Both Austin and Jackson reached out and tapped the screen. ‘He’s not a resident,’ Jackson declared. They watched the grey figure enter; as it did, a gloved hand reached up and pulled the hood down even further.

  ‘He knows there are cameras,’ said Austin.

  ‘They are quite obvious,’ said Jackson.

  The figure walked out of shot, his face having remained obscured. ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Not the lift. Must have used the stairs.’<
br />
  ‘Can we see the footage?’

  ‘There are no cameras on the stairs.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Now I’ve really started talking like McLusky, Austin thought irritably. ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘You’ve seen the age of the people who live here, no one uses the stairs. That’s probably why.’

  The figure re-emerged only twenty minutes later still wearing gloves. ‘Must have worked like a demon.’

  ‘Is it that bad up there?’

  ‘Pretty trashed, though nothing structural. Just quiet malice.’ Austin loaded the footage on to a USB stick and left. He was reluctant to call McLusky until he had something useful. He hoped the CCTV for Anchor Road would at last show how the killer spirited his victims away.

  Austin had missed lunch. On the way back to Albany Road he stopped off at a minimart to buy a plastic box of sandwich triangles to prove he was not turning into McLusky. He had expected the CCTV footage to be on his desk but found nothing had been delivered. The CID room was empty. Somewhere in an office a phone rang and rang. ‘Mary Celeste speaking, how can I help?’ he said to the room. He ripped open the sandwich box and teased out the first triangle. Cheese and tomato. It drooped wetly as he eased one pointed end into his mouth. For the first time ever he noticed how the thin end of the wedge unpleasantly tickled the back of his mouth. He demolished the strangely insubstantial sandwich in sixty seconds, then picked up the receiver of his desk phone and called the CCTV suite.

  ‘It’ll be completely useless to you, we’ve looked at it, you can’t see a thing. Someone took a pot shot at the camera with an air rifle. The camera is OK but it smashed the glass. It happens a lot, though usually they shoot out the street lights first.’