Falling More Slowly

by Peter Helton

  ‘I’ll look into that for you and tell the council what I think about it.’ What was left of the flimsy wooden fence that separated the cluster of prefabs from the derelict road was richly overgrown, the gaps full of builder’s waste, fly-tipped rubbish and rubble. It wouldn’t keep out anyone. Even to her it looked like the council had deliberately let the area become run down to make staying there less attractive. Fairfield had the heavy feeling CID would sooner or later be down here again, perhaps sorting out worse than plain house-breaking. Sorbie was right, she thought, these people should have moved away. Only now did she notice that Sorbie was no longer standing behind her. ‘Mr Cooke, you wouldn’t by any chance have noticed where DS Sorbie has got to?’

  ‘I would. He’s down there, throwing up against the back of number twenty-two.’

  Witek Setkievich could already see the end of his shift. Getting there was another matter. He only had three punters left on top, the others had got off at the science museum, but passenger numbers hardly mattered. Getting back to the starting point at Broad Quay and handing over at the end of his shift was all that mattered. The ancient red Routemaster open-top bus may have been fitted with a low-emission engine but it was still as big as a house and nearly as hard to drive. In this traffic it could take ten minutes to cover the last five hundred yards to the harbourside stop. This was where the company’s touts hunted for tourists, trying to entice them to take the ‘hop-on hop-off’ tour of the city. A few hundred yards away near the Hippodrome the company kept a draughty little ground-floor office.

  As was usual at lunchtime the roundabout was clogged with idiots not knowing where they were going and all getting in each other’s way. But Witek didn’t really mind. He liked driving the bus. Getting a licence was the best thing he had ever done. It had fed him since coming to this country. And driving the city tour bus was much, much better than driving a regular bus around the city which he had done for a year before landing this job. Tourists were much more polite than the passengers on ordinary buses. Especially foreign tourists. They hardly ever wanted to beat him up, did not call him stupid Polack, didn’t tell him to ‘go back home to Moscow’ and didn’t spit at the security screen. Tourists never pissed between the seats and didn’t throw up so much.

  Traffic moved on for a few car lengths and he could at last cross the junction. The road system in this city was madness, of course. Three times they had changed the layout, reversed the one-way systems, and nothing they tried worked properly. Some people wanted tourist buses banned to lighten the traffic but looking at this chaos that would be a drop in the ocean. It did worry him though. Driving was all he had ever been good at and he liked this job. He liked the bus.

  Witek strained to see who was doing the afternoon shift handing leaflets to the tourists. He recognized Ben and yes, there she was, her blonde hair shining in the sunlight: Emma.

  Witek liked Emma. He liked her so much he could not bring himself to shorten her name to Emm like everyone else did. Of course he had no chance. Emma was nice and polite with him but that’s all it was. She was on her gap year and would go travelling to Asia and Australia soon, something he could never do. Afterwards she would go to university. And he would still be driving a bus.

  When at last Witek swung the Routemaster into the reserved bay by the harbour Emma was talking to Ben and neither of them even turned their heads to see which driver was pulling in. Dave, who would relieve him and drive the next shift, was slouching by the railings. He gave a slow wave and carried on smoking.

  Witek announced the end of the tour over the microphone and added a reminder. ‘Everyone please be sure to take belongings with you.’ He opened the doors and waited for the three single passengers to alight. Each one said thank you as they left, so polite. The last thing he had to do was check that the vehicle was reasonably clean and pick up any rubbish and anything accidentally left behind. He checked first downstairs then the upper deck, collecting a few chocolate wrappers and a plastic sandwich carton. Right on the last seat lay a small pink lady’s umbrella. He picked it up. It looked cheap. Nobody would call for it at the office, they’d simply go out and buy a new one. But it was company policy to keep all found items for a couple of weeks before letting the staff take them home if they wanted to.

  Dave was downstairs leaning in the open door, lighting a last cigarette before the start of his shift. Witek checked his watch. Dave’s shift started in one minute but he would hang around for another five in plain view of the office, something he himself wouldn’t dare to do.

  ‘What you got, pink brollie? They never leave anything useful like a carton of fags or a hundred quid. What’s traffic like?’

  ‘Is crap. Always is by now.’ Witek smiled over Dave’s shoulder at Emma who was looking in his direction without registering him.

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know why I keep signing up for the afternoon shifts, they’re so much worse than the morning ones. I just can’t hack the early start, know what I mean? Not that I couldn’t drive this heap in my sleep. Watch this.’ After one last drag from his cigarette he flicked the butt at a council rubbish bin and missed.

  Witek’s voice was heavy with the tragedy of it. ‘Every day you miss, Dave. Never get better. Always miss rubbish bin.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Witek, my son. Now excuse me while I drive this rubbish bin.’

  Emma had moved and was busy working on a tourist couple who were already holding a leaflet each. She was standing on the wrong side of the parking bay for him to walk past casually, perhaps exchange a few words, ask how she was. The office, where he had to sign out, lay in the opposite direction. Now she moved even further away. Witek sighed. He’d sign out and somehow contrive to walk past her afterwards. It would mean taking quite a detour around the roundabout since home was in the opposite direction but it would be worth it. Witek smiled to himself as he walked quickly towards the office. Emma was very pretty even though she was English. Polish girls were famously pretty, much prettier than the English. But Emma was very beautiful in a very English way. Hard to explain. Different pretty.

  Sally, the office girl who almost single-handedly did all the admin jobs for the company, comically waggled her head while chewing down the cheese sandwich she had just dispatched. This one was not pretty. Sal was nice, though definitely not pretty. But she was always so cheerful, so perhaps she didn’t mind.

  ‘Hello, Witty, another day done? S’all right for some. Driving round in circles, calling it work, then knocking off early. I’ve got another four hours to go.’ She handed him the relevant clipboard holding the form for the drivers to tick and sign. Witek gave her the umbrella in exchange. ‘Oh, cute, can I have it if no one comes for it?’

  ‘Is not my colour, Sal. I don’t think is your colour too. You can have it, of course.’

  Sally made a note of the date then bent down to the cupboard where left items lingered among till rolls and boxes of rubber bands. As she found room for the umbrella her eyes fell on a plain white carrier. ‘Oh yeah, the egg, Witty, the egg! That’s one of yours and it’s been here more than two weeks now.’ She slipped it from the carrier and placed it on the counter between them. The heavy papier mâché Easter egg rocked gently between them. Its varnished shell was brightly decorated with Easter bunny motifs and a paper banderole around its waist promised fine dark, milk and white chocolate treats inside.

  ‘Nobody came for it? Someone somewhere is sad now.’ He gripped the shiny ovoid with one long-fingered hand. ‘Can I take the carrier too?’

  Disappointment spread over Sally’s face. ‘Oh, Witty … You’re not taking it home to snaffle by yourself, are you? I thought we could share …’ She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelids in a parody of silent-movie seduction.

  Witek hesitated with one hand resting on the egg, the other stretched out towards the carrier bag. He had thought of presenting the egg to Emma. His eyes wandered towards the window. He could see the quayside but no sign of her. Happy Easter, Emma … But then she might know that
he had found the chocolates on the bus and not bought them for her. She might think it was a cheap gesture. And if he took it away Sally would think he was mean and greedy. Everything to do with girls was complicated. You always found you wanted to please them and it broke your heart to disappoint them. ‘I remember now, I don’t really like chocolate. You will eat them, Sal.’

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t want any of it? They’re expensive chocolates …’

  ‘Total sure. You will enjoy them more. I go home now.’ On a sudden impulse he gave the egg a vicious twist, leaving it spinning on the counter in front of a mesmerized Sally as he walked out of the office.

  He stood on the pavement, squinted towards the bus stop and tried to make out Emma among the people on the quay. The force of the explosion made him stagger against an old lady. With a cry of dismay she fell to the ground beside him. Witek thought he heard the crack as her hip bone shattered.

  They walked to the locus, McLusky had insisted on it. Austin was glad he had as the traffic turned out to be particularly bad. They were easily keeping pace with the cars and by the time they got within sight of St Augustine’s Parade traffic was stationary everywhere. As they approached the Citytours office it didn’t take them long to discover why. The building that housed Citytours had been evacuated, along with the buildings to either side. The stretch of road in front of them was closed to passing traffic. The tarmac beyond the police tape was crowded with police cars and Forensics vehicles.

  Something about the way the police tape hung limply across the road threatened to drain McLusky of his goodwill to mankind. He grabbed the first uniformed officer he saw. ‘What’s with the bloody roadblock?’

  ‘Standard procedure, inspector, with a bomb threat.’

  ‘I thought the bomb had gone off.’

  ‘It has. There could be secondary devices, though. Couldn’t there?’ The constable looked unsure now.

  ‘What kind of bomb was it?’

  ‘A small device. Hidden in an Easter egg, is what I heard.’

  ‘Any Easter eggs in the road?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘What about the victim?’

  ‘Two victims, sir. An old lady got knocked off her feet, suspected pelvic fracture, the ambulance has just left. The other was an office worker, she was closest to the blast. Slight bruise and a nasty shock, otherwise she’s fine, apparently.’

  ‘That’s the first good news I’ve had since this thing started.’ He saw that Forensics were already at work. ‘Where is the office worker now? Not still inside, I take it?’

  ‘No, she and a co-worker are in that café further along, with PC Purkis.’

  ‘That’s the second good piece of news. How did the egg get here, any idea?’

  ‘Left on one of their buses, I believe. Driver found it.’

  ‘Right. Do you see any Easter bunnies in the road? No? Then get the damn traffic going, constable. Pronto.’

  The constable set about getting all the police vehicles moved while muttering about sarky CID gits and making up one’s bloody mind. McLusky ignored the Citytours office and swept on to the café. Here he found PC Purkis sharing a large pot of tea with a pale woman sporting a burgeoning bruise on her forehead and a broad-shouldered blond man with mournful eyes.

  ‘Every time I see you, constable, you seem to have a cup of tea in front of you.’

  Purkis didn’t know how to answer that, since it was true, but then she had only met the inspector once before, at the old man’s house in Knowle West. He seemed to be in a foul mood so perhaps he was in need of a cuppa himself. ‘That’s true, inspector. Best thing in a crisis, I always think.’

  McLusky sat down on the last free chair, next to the broad-shouldered man. ‘Jane, you heard what the officer always thinks, so get us a large pot of tea. And a chair for yourself. Hang on, I’ll give you the money.’

  ‘I think I can manage.’

  The café was crowded with refugees from the evacuated buildings and the voices sounded excited, even happy, perhaps at the interruption of an otherwise dreary day at the office.

  Purkis made the introductions. McLusky noticed that Sally’s hands displayed a small tremor as she lifted her teacup. ‘Has that bruise been seen to?’

  PC Purkis resented the implication that she might have neglected the basic care for the victim. ‘The paramedics took a look and ruled out concussion.’

  Sally spoke up. ‘They offered to take me to the Royal Infirmary just in case but I’m fine, really. Considering. Even my ears have stopped making that horrible high-pitched sound. I mean, compared to what could have happened I’m all right. It could have blown my fingers off.’

  ‘That’s probably what it was meant to do. Do you feel like telling us exactly what did happen? I know you already told the story but I’d like to hear it myself.’

  ‘Sure.’ Sally told the tale right from the beginning, from how and when the egg arrived to how Witek had left it spinning on the counter. Halfway through her account Austin arrived with the tea then disappeared again in search of a chair. By the time he reappeared Sally’s tale was coming to its conclusion. ‘The phone rang. I went to my desk to answer it. I had my hand on the receiver when it happened. It blew me over. It was like a big wave on the beach that knocks you off your feet. And I nearly brained myself on the edge of an open drawer. Stuff from the counter was flying everywhere. It looked like a storm had blown things about. Nothing broke or anything apart from the egg, that was just gone completely. It took me a while to realize what’d happened. Do you think it was a time bomb?’

  ‘I doubt it, though it’s possible. It’s more likely that it was meant to go off when someone opened it and that the spinning motion set it off prematurely. Forensics will tell us, no doubt.’ He turned to Witek, who was pale and looked preoccupied. ‘You found it, Mr Setkievich.’

  ‘Yes. Ehm, two weeks ago.’

  Sally waved her hand in disagreement. ‘Three weeks this Friday, actually.’

  ‘Is there CCTV on the buses?’

  ‘No. We do not need TV. Is peaceful, nice people normally, nobody makes us trouble.’

  ‘Can you remember where you found it?’

  ‘Lower deck, I think. On the floor, in a white plastic bag.’

  ‘You don’t remember who sat there?’

  ‘No, no. Could be anybody. I don’t look at passengers, I look at the road. And people move about. We go slow, is quite safe.’ Witek nodded reassuringly.

  For once McLusky wished for more CCTV. ‘People don’t book these tours in advance, do they?’

  ‘Mostly they pay me. They come and go as they want. No booking.’

  No bookings, no names, no CCTV, no witnesses, no memories. ‘I suppose I’ll have to talk to your boss too, just to cover all the angles. Where would I find him?’

  ‘Her.’ Sally sniffed at the built-in sexism of the inspector’s question.

  ‘Her, sorry.’

  ‘Madeira. For another week.’ She sighed. ‘On the plus side it’s been raining there ever since she arrived, I checked on the net.’

  McLusky decided that Sally would recover from her experience soon. ‘Mr Setkievich, what time of the day would it have been when you found the egg?’

  ‘I found it after the first tour. So about twenty past ten is when I pull in again, depends on traffic. Sometime is later.’

  ‘And you’d have set off when?’

  ‘Nine thirty.’

  He turned to Austin. ‘Right, we’ll work backwards, get the route, get all available CCTV for that morning and find footage of the bus going round the city. Mr Setkievich, how many Citytour buses are there?’

  ‘Two. But the other was not running that day. I remember because someone made sabotage on bus. Mechanic took all day to find rotten fruit in bus exhaust. I think apple.’

  ‘Well, that makes it easier. If we spot the bus then we might catch a glimpse of the passengers.’ He nodded at the civilians. ‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful. We will need written statements from both of
you in due course.’

  Sally looked put out. ‘Will we have to come to the station to do that?’

  ‘Oh, no. PC Purkis here will visit you at home. You can do it over a mug of tea.’

  Purkis perked up. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Outside the scene had changed. Traffic was once more flowing in normal treacle fashion. Behind the now much smaller police cordon stood a bevy of reporters and photographers. He spotted Phil Warren just as she looked his way. Her gaze was interested and unrepentant. McLusky signalled to her with one hand at waist-height, you/me, flashed an open palm for five, mouthed Marriott Hotel. Warren widened her eyes in surprise, gave a slight nod, then walked away casually. The whole transaction was so quick no one else appeared to notice, including Austin who walked beside him.

  ‘There’s that Phil Warren slinking off. Probably scared you’ll have a go at her.’

  ‘Oh yeah, so it is. I’ll get a chance to mess with her mind some other time. Right, Jane. Get on to CCTV, grab as much help as you can find, see if we can spot anything at all.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘Me? Just … stuff. I’ll catch you up.’ He ducked under the tape and stuck his head into the door of the Citytours office but didn’t cross the threshold. Forensics were everywhere, picking the place over. The team leader with the blond moustache looked up from bagging fragments of bomb mechanism. ‘Someone was damn lucky, inspector. This could have removed more than her sweet tooth.’ The team groaned. ‘Blinded her, more likely. Common fireworks injury. There must have been a pound of gunpowder in this one.’

  ‘Any chance it was a time bomb?’

  ‘No, we can safely rule that out. Same type as the others, perhaps not as lethal.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s all about containment, the tighter the charge is confined the more powerful the explosion. You see, the can killed the bloke because it was soldered shut. The pen too was bad news because of the metal casing, that’s what nearly did the librarian in.’