That meant that Grant shouldn’t touch the bag or its contents without gloves, and even then only with extreme care so as not to smudge any prints that might be there. It also meant that the contents would be covered in powder and pretty much fucked before the owner got them back. He’d seen it many times. People too upset to use their property again. People who couldn’t handle the ingrained silver powder and the constant reminder it would always provide.
He turned his attention to the small object on the seat beside him.
Grant took a deep breath at the memory of the owner when she’d realized it was one of the things stolen. Taken during the burglary that changed her life. His heart went out to her. His mind took him back.
Mavis Peacock put a brave face on it but couldn’t hide the hurt behind her eyes as she answered Grant’s questions. The two-bedroom back-to-back terrace house was a mess. That seemed to hurt the eighty-five-year-old lady as much as what was missing.
Grant stood in the doorway next to the broken ground-floor window and immediately knew this house was normally spotlessly clean. His former company sergeant major could have run his white-gloved finger over any flat surface and not come up with a lick of dust. Women of Mavis’s generation had no truck with dust. They vacuumed and dusted and polished twice a week every week and never left anything out of place. Women of Mavis’s generation lived within their means and nursed their husbands into their graves, then polished and dusted their memories in photo frames and wall-mounted portraits. Mavis’s husband had been in the army. The photographs were faded to brown but still displayed the hearty smile and rigid back of a man in uniform. A man who had fought for his country and provided for his wife until death do us part. Death had parted them, but life continued for Mavis.
Until tonight. Tonight had almost finished her right there and then when she’d come home and found the window broken and the house ransacked. Grant did the professional stuff first. He composed the modus operandi for the crime report in his head.
Domestic burglary. The attacked premises are a two-bedroom back-to-back terrace house on a quiet residential street. Between times and dates shown, while the occupant was out shopping, person or persons unknown approach locked and secured ground-floor wooden framed window and use a screwdriver or similar instrument to prise up the top-opening sash window, causing the glass to break. Entry gained by climbing through window. All rooms untidily searched and property stolen. Egress by unlocking front door. Suspect makes off on foot unseen, direction unknown.
He booked SOCO to come and fingerprint the scene but was told they couldn’t get there for two hours. Grant made an executive decision. Taking a close look at the window frame where the thief had pulled himself through, he spotted muddy woolen glove marks on the paintwork. He called the council to board up the window and led Mavis through the wreckage of her home. Clothing had been tipped out of the drawers. Food had been poured all over the kitchen. The portable television had been stolen after removing the ornaments from the top.
Anything with a smooth surface Grant put to one side for SOCO. Everything else he helped Mavis tidy away. The food he cleaned up. Tablets from the bathroom cabinet he told her to put back. She was upset but keeping it inside—until she checked the bedside table and discovered the most important thing missing.
The sob that crept out of her throat almost moved Grant to tears, and Grant wasn’t given to bouts of emotion. Mavis described the delicate glasses case and the horn-rimmed spectacles she needed for reading. She couldn’t provide Grant with a value because she hadn’t paid for them herself. The glasses had been an anniversary gift from her husband. It had been the last thing he’d ever bought her—three weeks before he died.
The memory forced Grant to clench his teeth. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he concentrated on the road ahead. Some things were wrong but for all the right reasons, no matter how wrong that wrong thing was.
Grant was certain this wrong thing fell into that category.
The night was all consuming. The headlights swept the road before him, and he took one last look around. No streetlights. No houses. Just trees and fields and the occasional farm track. When he saw the turnoff he wanted, Grant dowsed the headlights and slowly pulled into the dark, overgrown entrance.
“Say it again.”
“I’m fuckin’ sorry, man. All right? For fuck’s sake.”
Palm was dripping sweat despite the cool night air. Stringy tendrils of saliva dangled from his mouth, and tears filled his eyes. Grant looked into those eyes and felt nothing. He was a rock. The sight of a little old lady crying like a baby overshadowed any regrets he might feel here. He stood over the kneeling figure at the edge of the sandstone quarry and felt no pity at all. No guilt either. What he was about to do was wrong but for all the right reasons.
He glanced around him at the wooded glade on the edge of the cliff. The uneven ground was a mixture of matted grass and rocky outcrops. The tree line was maybe six feet from the precipice along the northern face apart from at the clearing. Here the trees drew back to give the two men some space. Moonlight picked out the sharp stone and tufts of grass that marked the end of life on the plateau.
The cold blue-gray light couldn’t penetrate the depths beyond. Grant picked up a stone and tossed it into the abyss. There was no sound for a long time, then it click-clacked on the rocks below before splashing into the dark waters of the quarry pond.
“What else?”
“Fuck? What? I ain’t never gonna do nothin’ like that again.”
Grant kicked Palm in the ribs, and the burglar almost toppled over the cliff. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and both could now see the steep drop onto jagged rocks below. The water was just a dead black space with unseen ripples from the stone Grant had thrown.
Palm’s eyes bulged in his head, and the spittle shot out as he screamed, “Aargh. I will not break into houses—never no more!”
Grant stepped in close and grabbed Palm by the scruff of the neck. He twisted his fingers into the burglar’s collar and yanked him to his feet. He jerked the skinny pustule toward the abyss. For a moment the policeman was the only thing between balance and oblivion. Palm’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the loose ground of the rim. His weight leaned outwards even as his body tried desperately to lunge back in. Then Grant tugged the crumpled collar back onto terra firma and let go. He smiled a humorless smile. He’d bet that Chusan Palm had never had his collar feel quite like that before.
“That’s right. You’re retired.”
“Yes, officer.”
Palm was sobbing now, but he repeated the apology just to be on the safe side. “Not never again.”
Grant ignored the double negative and reached into his windcheater pocket. He took a small, dark object out and held it in front of Palm’s face. He clicked it open with a metallic snap. The burglar flinched as the switchblade glinted in the moonlight. Palm waited for the pain of the slashing cut or the stabbing lunge. It was only when the pain didn’t materialize that he realized it wasn’t a flick knife. Grant took the pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from the delicate glasses case.
“There are none so blind as those who cannot see.”
Palm’s eyes were streaming tears. He had to wipe them away on his sleeve to see what the detective was showing him. A whimper escaped his mouth. Grant took Palm’s left hand in a vicelike grip and spread it out on the rocky precipice. It lay between two raised outcroppings like a plank over a trestle. Grant stood up.
“She was eighty-five years old. Couldn’t see a thing without these glasses.”
He towered over the figure on the ground.
“Couldn’t read the tablets she needed twice a day and at bedtime.” He raised one heavy booted foot. “The pills that were keeping her alive.”
Chusan Palm closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He couldn’t watch but he couldn’t move his hand either. It lay
there ready to be stamped on. He braced himself for the pain. “I didn’t know.”
“You shouldn’t need to know.”
The cool breeze rustled the nearby trees.
“And if she’d taken her tablets she didn’t need to have—”
Grant didn’t finish. Instead he drove his foot down hard. The bone-crunching snap was loud in the quiet of the wooded clearing. It echoed around the quarry like a gunshot. Palm screamed, then yanked his hand back and fainted.
The thick broken twig tumbled into the abyss.
Grant put the glasses back in his pocket and stepped back from the edge, both literally and mentally. He felt the anger ease. Tomorrow he would return the bag of stolen property to the old lady who had almost died. The paramedics had saved her life. Grant had saved her glasses.
He looked down at the quivering mess that was Chusan Palm, persistent burglar, robber, and thief. He was curled in the fetal position with both hands tucked safely under his stomach. The faint didn’t last long. His eyes flickered but he kept them shut, fearing what he might see.
Words dribbled off his lips in an ungainly tumble. “Please. Sir. Permission. With your. I’ll retire.”
Grant took the car keys out of his pocket. “Damn right you’ll retire.” He looked down the burglar one last time. “Permission granted.”
He didn’t need to add any threats, and Palm couldn’t hear them anyway. Grant got in the car and started the engine. He pulled back from the precipice before turning the headlights on, then reversed down the track to the main road.
The following excerpt is from
jamaica plain
The first Resurrection Man
novel by Colin Campbell.
one
The first thing Jim Grant did when he landed in Boston was buy a map. The second thing was get laid. The third was almost get himself killed interviewing a prisoner who was into something far bigger than what the detective came to interview him about.
Detective. That sounded good, but Grant knew it was only a temporary assignment while his inspector cleaned up the mess he’d left behind in Yorkshire. He was still just a plain old constable: PC 367 Grant. Maybe while he was visiting the US he should think of himself as a cop. Then again, maybe not. That would be going a bit too Hollywood.
First things first. If he were going to find his way around Boston, he’d need a map. Ignoring the other passengers collecting their wheeled cases from the luggage carousel, Grant hefted the battered leather holdall in one hand and went in search of the concession stands. That was his first mistake. Three thousand miles from home, and trouble still managed to find him straightaway.
Logan International was bigger than Manchester Airport, but the basics were the same. Wide open spaces, big windows looking out onto the runways, and dozens of preformed waiting-room chairs in rows of four with a low table in between, all connected so if one person sat down, all four seats bounced. Grant had lost count of how many cups of coffee he’d spilled because some heavyweight couldn’t lower himself into his seat.
The place smelled of plastic and canned air.
There were fewer seats in the arrivals lounge than in departures. Fewer people wanted to sit down after spending a long flight cramped in a seat with no legroom and someone in front leaning back so that what little room you did have was crushed against your knees. At least that was Grant’s experience of international travel. At six feet four he’d have troubling stretching out in first class. West Yorkshire Police hadn’t paid for first class. Prisoner extradition might have warranted the expense. Getting your bad egg out of the way meant the cheapest seat available and forget the legroom.
Logan had one other thing in common with Manchester. Airports attracted criminals like flies around shit. For some reason, Grant was the embodiment of human flypaper. He wasn’t looking, but his eyes couldn’t help roving. It was a reflex action. Any room he entered, the first thing he’d do was scan the crowd, quickly followed by a check of the exits and any mirrors that could be used for extra viewing. He never sat anywhere he couldn’t see behind him. He never stood anywhere he couldn’t get out of fast if trouble started.
This wasn’t trouble. It was two kids dipping pockets and doing it very well.
Distraction was the main technique for most crimes apart from blatant armed robbery. Thieves didn’t want to get caught, so it was better if nobody saw what they were stealing. Burglars usually broke in at night. Thieves usually stole when nobody was looking. Only complete idiots or hardened criminals stuck a gun in your face and demanded your money. The victims would remember you for the rest of their lives. Some might even shoot you. If nobody saw you take their wallet, then who was going to be a witness in court? Nobody.
Movement and noise were the best distractions. An airport arrivals lounge had plenty of both. Everyone was in a rush. Suitcases were being wheeled around. Visitors were looking for their relatives. Airport transfer drivers were milling around with name cards written in thick black letters. People were buying coffee, magazines, and maps.
Grant was paying for the Boston street map at Hudson News when he spotted the teenage tag team. Their target was an attractive woman in a business suit he’d seen at the luggage carousels. Tidy figure. Tight trousers. Nice arse. He focused on that for a while, but his peripheral vision saw the hunters circling. Part of his brain wanted to chat with the businesswoman. Part of him wanted to arrest the pickpockets. The rest of him remembered his inspector giving a stern warning before setting off.
Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved. You’re off-duty.
That wasn’t strictly true. This was a holiday assignment, yes. Interview the prisoner. Eliminate him from the inquiry. Release him and come home. He’d been sent on it to keep him out of the way while Discipline and Complaints investigated the mess at Snake Pass. But he’d be on-duty during the interview, and technically you were on-duty while traveling to and from work for the purposes of injury-on-duty claims. Have an accident on the way to work and it was classed as an injury on-duty. So if he spotted a crime on his way to work …
Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved.
That part went against the grain. If there was one thing Jim Grant found hard to do, it was ignore a crime right in front of his face. Bad guys did bad things. It was up to the good guys to stop them. Grant was one of the good guys. Always had been. Keeping out of trouble should be easy with a pair of teenagers. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. It just required a bit of tact.
He paid for the map and watched.
The teenage boy was very good. The girl was even better. What they had going for them was how innocent they both looked. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, you’d think. Grant watched them hanging around outside the magazine stand. They appeared to be waiting for their parents—only they weren’t watching for someone joining them, they were scouring the shoppers for easy marks.
The businesswoman wheeled her suitcase into the shop, an expensive shoulder bag hanging open around her back. The boy nodded. The girl split off and held position ten feet away. The dance began.
The woman bought a pack of breath mints and an orange juice. The boy stayed a few feet behind her. The girl kept station ten feet away. When the woman left the shop, the boy followed. The girl never let the distance alter—ten feet—until the boy nodded again. The girl moved in front and bumped into the woman. The boy’s hand was so fast Grant hardly saw it. In and out of the bag in a flash. He broke left and the girl apologized, going right. A quick half-circle and they crossed paths. A dull brown shape was switched, and now it was the girl, all cute and innocent, with the stolen goods. The woman didn’t even know she’d been targeted.
Don’t get involved.
Not an option. Grant moved quick, before the boy and girl separated too far. Without being obvious, he grabbed the boy’s arm and guided him towards the girl. He identified himself as police and to
ld the girl to follow them. She did. Fear shone in her eyes. Caught in the act. It was the look every kid he’d ever arrested had the first time. He didn’t squeeze. There was no need. The threesome gathered by a water fountain against the wall.
“Okay, kids. I haven’t got time for this. Hand it over.”
The girl’s eyes darted at the boy and then over his shoulder. The boy had no resistance. The girl gave Grant the wallet. He kept half an eye on the teenagers and the other half on the businesswoman. She had stopped to take a drink of orange juice and drop the mints in her bag. Grant towered over the teenagers.
“Now beat it. You won’t be so lucky next time.”
Without waiting for an answer, he set off across the concourse. The woman was on her second swig of juice when he held the wallet out. “I think you dropped this.”
Her first reaction was to look him in the eyes. A hard, straight look that sized him up in an instant. Big guy in worn jeans and a faded orange windcheater. Then she reverted to victim mode. She swung the shoulder bag round front and rummaged inside. Grant handed the wallet over. Gratitude feathered a smile across her lips. A twinkle in her eyes. “What sharp little eyes you’ve got.”
“Not so little.”
“No, you aren’t, are you?”
This was interesting. Grant was about to explore the possibilities when he saw the teenagers over the woman’s shoulder. The fear in the girl’s eyes had multiplied tenfold. The angry man herding them away didn’t look like their father.
Keep out of trouble.
That didn’t look like an option now either. The man was big in a lumpy fat man sort of way. There was bulk and muscle, but he was out of shape. That didn’t matter when it came to intimidating kids. The kids looked plenty intimidated. The girl looked terrified.
Jim Grant Short Stories #1 Page 3
