Falling More Slowly

by Peter Helton

  As he reached inside his jacket for his phone he was grabbed by two men and slammed against the fence, face first. ‘Police, don’t move, don’t speak!’ Suddenly the place was busy. In the corner of his eye he saw uniformed officers in body armour troop past up the alley. Seconds later he heard the splintering of wood and the familiar shouts. ‘Police! Show yourselves! Police, come out, keep your hands where we can see them!’

  The two officers released their grip and swivelled McLusky around. Both were in their twenties, had shaved heads and weighed fifteen stone plus. ‘Who are you, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Detective Inspector McLusky.’ He showed his ID.

  ‘Ah. Sorry, sir. Bad timing. Drug squad raid. What were you doing here?’

  ‘Is it Daws you’re hoping to find in there?’

  ‘That’s who we should be finding there. And quite possibly a cannabis factory. Helicopter chased some kids around here a few days back, using infrared. Apart from the kids the infra showed up a huge heat signature for the roof of this house. Now unless he’s converted his entire loft into a sauna that usually means it’s full of heat lamps for growing pot.’ A message over the radio soon confirmed it. ‘Two in custody. Tropical gardens upstairs, wall to wall cannabis plants.’

  McLusky nodded grimly. No wonder the kid had been nervous. ‘Ask him if one of his prisoners answers to the name of Daws and if he has a bandaged hand.’

  The answer came back instantly. ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I need to ask Daws a few questions and I need to ask them quickly.’

  ‘Whatever he tells you he remains our prisoner.’

  ‘First come first served, naturally.’

  Daws was still in the kitchen cuffed by his left hand to a huge officer. Innis Cole, his young apprentice, sat bewildered and close to tears on a kitchen chair. The place was busy with officers. The front door had been knocked at the same time as the officers had entered the garden. McLusky showed his ID to Daws who tried to look bored, though fear had widened his eyes. ‘Timothy Daws, I presume. That’s entirely the wrong type of gardening you’ve been doing up there.’

  Daws didn’t meet his eyes but looked out through the window at the shed which was being searched. ‘Just a few plants for private consumption.’

  ‘I doubt the judge will see it like that. Even what’s in that shed will be enough for a custodial sentence. But then I’m not really interested in your shed or your attic. Or your driving offences or your benefit fraud for that matter, though it all makes a tidy bundle for the CPS. I’m interested in this.’ McLusky grabbed the prisoner’s free arm and lifted his bandaged hand chest high. ‘Where did you hurt yourself?’

  Daws tried unsuccessfully to pull from the grasp. ‘Burnt myself on the car engine.’

  ‘I thought it was a barbecue. Try again, Mr Daws.’ He turned to the officer in charge. ‘Has he been arrested yet?’

  ‘For drugs offences, intent to supply etc.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ He turned back to Daws. ‘You got that injury when something unexpectedly blew up in or near your hand. I think you’re involved with the spate of bombings in the city. I think we can safely add murder to the list.’

  Daws met his eyes with an unbelieving stare. ‘Nah, rubbish, that’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Who has it to do with?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know, I had nothing to do with that shit.’

  ‘Who has, Daws?’

  ‘I don’t know his name, do I?’

  ‘But you know where? Because you, Mr Daws, during your recent spree of burglaries, got a painful surprise somewhere.’

  Daws clamped his mouth shut and stared out of the window.

  ‘Daws, if you think it would incriminate you then I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll be nothing compared to withholding evidence in a terrorism case. If one more person dies because you didn’t tell us, we’re going to add manslaughter to your charge sheet. I’ll see to it personally.’

  Daws appeared to be thinking it over but his shoulders had already sagged. ‘Nelson Close, one of the old prefabs.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘At the end. The last one before the field. But it was an empty one, boarded up, no one lives there, so it wasn’t even really breaking in or anything. Only I’d seen someone go in and out the back the day before so I thought I’d check it out. It had some kind of workshop in there. There was an MP3 player on the workbench. It blew up in my fucking hand. I got the hell out of there and down to A&E.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you to let us know what you had stumbled upon there?’

  Daws shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly my style, is it?’

  The incident room was empty. DC Dearlove had enlarged the photograph of the old boy with the bicycle to A4 size and printed several copies, one of which he now pinned up on the board opposite the row of photos of the bomb victims, all thankfully taken before the explosions. The girl was the most upsetting, he thought, although the gym woman had been quite a looker too. It wasn’t really fair, of course. The better looking you were the more sympathy you got. He had noticed that long ago. If you were ugly and covered in spots and had thin hair nobody really cared.

  Where was everybody? Further down the corridor in the CID room he found only DC French listening to someone on the phone while demolishing a packet of Jaffa Cakes and ignoring him, both as per usual. Through the open door he spotted DS Sorbie in the corridor, moving past in a curious slow motion. When he called after him he only got a feeble wave in return. He drew level with him by the stairs. ‘Are you okay, sir?’ The DS certainly didn’t look it. His skin was glistening and he seemed to have shrunk into his suit.

  ‘No, I’m not, thanks for asking. I’ve been throwing up merrily and worse and I feel shite. Drank too much river water the other day. I’m out of here.’ Or it could have been the celebrations of course. Should have taken a couple of days off like Fairfield.

  ‘It’s only that DI McLusky asked me to disseminate this picture.’ He held out a copy to him. ‘He thinks this might be him. The bomber.’

  ‘Oh yeah? About time. Hang on. I’ve seen him before, I’m sure of it.’ And he hadn’t been feeling too clever that day either. ‘He’s that grumpy bastard at Nelson Close, in those prefabs.’ A new wave of nausea was gathering just above his navel. You’d have thought all that alcohol would have killed any bugs he might have swallowed with the river water but apparently not.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a name, would you?’

  ‘For him? No. Last but one of the bungalows before the demolished brickworks.’ He was feeling hot, sweat pricked his skin. ‘Go get him, Deedee. Cover yourself in glory. Before I cover you in puke.’

  Dearlove watched the DS turn away and shuffle back down the corridor towards the toilets like a very old man. ‘Right. Okay.’ Well, he would certainly have a look at him. One old dear he could deal with. And then if he found anything suspicious he would call it in, of course.

  DS Austin was in the process of dialling the inspector’s number when McLusky stuck his head into the incident room. ‘Jane, what have you got?’

  Austin consulted a sheet of notes. ‘Well, there was a flood of calls as you’d expect on a day like that, most of them what you’d call nuisance calls, about being stuck in traffic and when the hell were they going to do something about it. But there were some serious calls. Two women in labour, for a start. They got attended by local midwives and a doctor legging it round there. But I just found this. The name is Cooke. The wife took an overdose and her husband found her and called for an ambulance. He called six times. When they eventually got her to the Royal Infirmary it was too late. She died later of liver failure.’

  ‘And he lives in a prefab?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because he’s our man, Jane. Let’s go, let’s go.’

  A thin, half-hearted rain began to fall as McLusky drove across town in his usual style, though he did refrain from using the pavements. Austin found he
had to give fewer directions now; the inspector was getting to know the city.

  ‘I think he always tried to watch, that was his mistake. He was certainly there when the bombs in the park went off. And I do think he was at the docks that morning looking at the aftermath of the firebomb on the Eleni. He enjoys the fruits of his work a bit too much.’

  ‘It all makes hideous sense. He blames whatever caused the gridlock and takes his revenge.’

  McLusky grunted with disgust and swerved to avoid a child struggling on a tiny bicycle into the middle of the road. ‘Only it’s gone far beyond that. He hates everyone, he hates the city. He wants us all to stay at home and be quiet. So he can grieve in peace.’

  ‘If he was hoping to scare people into staying at home then he should have known better. Especially if he is the old boy in this picture.’ Austin patted the photocopy on the dashboard. ‘Even the blitz didn’t make people stay at home.’

  ‘I think it soon stopped being about getting a result and became all about doing it, hurting people. You hurt me – now I’ll hurt you back.’

  ‘We’re nearly there. What kind of back-up have we got?’

  McLusky checked the clock on the dashboard. ‘Firearms unit will meet us in forty minutes. Just here actually.’ He slowed down. They had arrived at the turn-off to the close. A clump of trees, untidy shrubs and a substation obscured the view of the prefabs from the main road. ‘It was the best place I could think of, not knowing the area too well. We’ll send some of the boys across the other side through the demolished brickworks. But that’s all academic until we know that the bastard’s at home.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be armed?’

  ‘Hard to say. But we know he doesn’t mind killing or maiming so he might not come quietly.’ He turned the car down the narrow potholed road into Nelson Close and stopped by the first bungalow. ‘This is number one, unsurprisingly, what number is he?’

  ‘Last but one with the back to the service road, number thirty-five. Right at the back.’

  Standing in the rain they surveyed the area. The bungalows were arranged in a rigid grid, with wide concrete paths between front and back gardens. Every two bungalows shared an area of perished concrete hard standing, most of which gave room to bins, rusting white goods, old paint tins and broken furniture. While all the bungalows looked identical – hunched, asbestos-grey shapes with moss-covered roofs – it was the gardens that had once given them their individuality. Waist-high weeds surrounded most of the boarded-up prefabs but some still showed signs of cultivation. There were only a few small cars visible in the close, parked in front of neatly kept houses. An old two-stroke disability vehicle rusted in front of a bungalow where the front garden had been concreted over.

  Austin let out a long breath through puffed-up cheeks. ‘Tumbleweed alert. The close that time forgot.’

  As the sky darkened a light came on behind the small net-curtained window of number three.

  ‘We’ll try this one, have a chat, find out if anyone’s seen him today.’

  ‘I bet people round here know everything about everybody.’

  ‘You’d have thought so. Yet obviously not everything.’

  ‘Got a point there.’ Austin pressed the tiny electric bell button in the centre of number three’s front door.

  A woman in her late fifties opened it as far as the chain allowed. McLusky showed his ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector McLusky from CID. With me is Detective Sergeant Austin. Could we have a word? Won’t keep you long.’

  ‘What is it now?’ The door closed to allow for the removal of the chain, then opened wider.

  ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Make sure you wipe your feet. What is it you wanted?’ The woman stood in the tiny carpeted hall, allowing them just enough space to come in out of the rain.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. May I ask your name?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Woodley. Joan Woodley.’

  ‘Mrs Woodley, we would like to ask you about Mr Cooke. He lives in number thirty-five, I believe. Do you know him at all?’

  ‘Yes, poor Mr Cooke, well, of course we know of him.’

  ‘He lost his wife.’

  She shook her head at his ignorance. ‘And his daughter. Both dead within two years. He lost everything really. His house, business, family.’

  ‘His daughter too? I didn’t know that. And his business? How …?’

  ‘Yes, well, he used to have that electrical repair shop in the old town, I remember Frank getting our radio repaired there once, years and years ago now. But people don’t have things repaired any more, do they? They just buy new things now, and then perhaps Mr Cooke didn’t know how to repair all the new technology and that anyway. The business folded and then he lost the house too, they lived over the shop and he had remortgaged it to prop up the business.’

  ‘His daughter, how did she die?’

  ‘Jenny? She was run over. Well, squashed by a reversing lorry against a house. That’s what sent Barbara, Mrs Cooke, over the edge, I’m sure of it. They’d just lost the house and all and had moved here.’

  The hall was so narrow Austin had to speak over McLusky’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Woodley, does Mr Cooke have an electric bicycle?’

  ‘That’s exactly what the other policeman asked. Yes, he does all his shopping on it. What’s so important about it? Did he break the speed –’

  McLusky interrupted. ‘Other policeman, Mrs Woodley? When was that?’

  ‘Today, earlier. Can’t be more than an hour ago. Actually he looked too young to be a policeman, but you know what they say about policemen looking younger.’

  McLusky fleshed out the picture for her. ‘Thin hair, bad skin, terrible suit?’

  She rewarded him with a broad smile. ‘You describe him very well.’

  Austin was already outside. McLusky thanked Mrs Woodley and urgently followed. ‘Right, Jane, let’s go check it out. That could only be Dearlove, what the hell does he think he’s doing?’ They walked fast towards the other end of the close. The further they came the more boarded-up prefabs they saw.

  ‘Deedee’s not the shiniest tool in the box.’

  ‘He’ll be the dullest bobby on the beat if he’s spooked Cooke. Right.’ He counted off the house numbers. ‘There’s his house, let’s walk along the hedge out of sight.’

  McLusky stalked along the fence among heaps of builder’s rubble, some of which looked like dumped asbestos – he was glad it was still raining. Number thirty-five was entirely surrounded by uninhabited and partly derelict houses. It was a dark and desolate corner of the close, richly overgrown.

  Austin nudged his boss. ‘Look in there.’

  McLusky followed the direction Austin indicated, into the wilderness of number thirty-four’s garden. A car had been parked in here, then covered with bits of tarpaulin and partially surrounded with corrugated iron and chipboard.

  ‘That’s Deedee’s little Ford.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Austin pulled more of the camouflage away and nodded. ‘It’s his.’

  ‘Shit. Okay, we’ll go in now.’

  ‘Aren’t we waiting for the firearms unit?’

  ‘He didn’t park it like that himself. If he’s no longer in control of his car then he’s in trouble. Sod the firearms unit, they’re twenty minutes away.’ He keyed his airwave radio. ‘Alpha Nine to Control request immediate back-up my position Nelson Close number thirty-five one officer down ambulance required immediate officers McLusky and Austin attending over.’ As soon as Control acknowledged he put the radio down and took his mobile out. ‘Switch your mobile to vibrate.’

  Austin did so, squinting into the thin drizzle. ‘It’s very quiet at this end away from the road.’

  ‘Not for long. He’s got net curtains on every window and the glass in the door. Probably the same at the back. He’ll see us coming if he’s in there. There’s no time for subtlety. You take the back door, I’ll take the front. Go, and move fast. If you hear me smashing through do the same
at the back, otherwise wait.’

  There was no possibility of approaching by stealth. They moved in quick strides past the front of the derelict house neighbouring Cooke’s, then split up, Austin putting on a spurt to get to the back door. If Cooke was in there he must have noticed the movement. McLusky didn’t hesitate: he turned the door handle, ready to break the half-glazed door down if it was locked. It wasn’t. He opened it and moved quietly inside, listening. A narrow hall, identical in proportions to the first one they had visited. Cabbagey cooking smells mixed with the lemon scent of furniture polish. A half-open door to the left led into a small, sparsely furnished sitting room; two-seater sofa, half of it taken up with piles of newsprint. A closed door to the right; he threw it open. A double bedroom, neatly made bed. Quickly on to the next closed door – a tiny bedroom, green carpet, empty apart from a silver electric bicycle leaning against the wall, connected to a charger on the floor. McLusky stepped through the final half-open door into the small kitchen. Behind the net-curtained half-glazed back door stood Austin, waiting patiently for a sign from his boss. McLusky stepped towards the door to open it for him, reaching out towards the handle. Below it a black round metal container, fixed to the door by an iron bracket, looked out of place. He withdrew his hand sharply and opened the tiny window above the sink instead. ‘Step away from the door, Jane, it’s booby-trapped. He’s not in here.’

  They met up by the front door. ‘Was the booby trap meant for us?’

  ‘Hard to say. Perhaps it’s a burglar trap. No sign of Deedee or of a struggle. The door was unlocked and his electric bike is in there. He’s in his workshop in one of these derelict houses.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s scores of them. Which one is it?’

  McLusky pointed. ‘It’s that one.’ Cooke had appeared from around the back of the last bungalow, whose garden backed on to the towpath. As he saw them he stopped in his tracks, then turned quickly back around the corner.

  ‘Stop, police!’ McLusky was running already. Austin sprinted around the front in case Cooke tried to escape that way. They met up by the back door, having seen nothing. Windows and door were boarded up and, to the casual observer, secure. Yet on closer inspection the chipboard over the back entrance was in fact a hinged door. A bolt lying on the ground beside it would secure the door from the outside. McLusky picked it up and flung it far into the long grass. There was no sign of Daws’ break-in. It had either been repaired or he had come in a different way.