Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  Phelps blew his nose loudly. “Too young to be a local office worker, guv?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Moran waved his stick in a wide arc. “Plenty of offices in and around the town centre. Could be a trainee.” He paused. “I’m beginning to wonder about the racist angle now.”

  “Right-wingers?” Phelps made an inverse U with his mouth. “I’ve not heard of any particularly proactive group based in the Berkshire area, guv. Have you?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “True. Or it could be that our killer is of the extreme right-wing persuasion himself. No backup, no membership, just a solo artist.” Phelps spread his hands and indicated the body. “Or this lad could just be a pimp who got unlucky.”

  Moran bent and looked into the dead eyes. “No, Phelps, this is a good boy from a good home, with a good job.”

  “You think?”

  “Look.” Moran exposed the dead man’s neck and fished out a fluorescent lanyard from which dangled a blank security card. “I’m betting he’s an IT worker.” He peered at the lanyard. “Sometimes these have company logos. Your eyes are better than mine, Phelps.”

  Phelps grunted and inspected the lanyard. “Aha. Spot on, guv.” He read the name. “Mukhandra International. Our killer’s getting careless – if it’s the same one.”

  Moran stepped aside to let a forensics officer through. He winced as the glare of the superlite flashed across his path of vision. “Oh, it’s the same killer, Phelps,” he said grimly. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  Chapter 7

  Detective Constable James Hill was on a mission. He was sick of the endless stream of jokes and witty leg-pulling fired at him day after day. It was usually DS Banner who kicked things off with some comment about his hair or his baby-faced appearance. Then the scene would be set for the others to join in. He took it in good part, as far as they knew. He made a point of laughing it off, giving something back. But it hurt, and he’d had enough. Why couldn’t they pick on someone else?

  He couldn’t help looking young. OK, so he did have to carry an over-eighteen ID card; otherwise he’d be refused service every time he went into a bar. Banner knew this, of course, and never missed an opportunity to bring it up. It was crushingly embarrassing; the worst time ever had been when he’d taken Helen out to a trendy bar. It was a busy Saturday night and the bar was packed with youngsters of his age. The barman had looked him up and down with a knowing wink. “Away you go, sonny. You’d better get your big sis to take you home.”

  Helen had smiled politely and told him it was OK, it didn’t matter. But he could see it did. Hill sighed and rapped the steering wheel in frustration. He was a grown man; he had a man’s needs, a man’s thoughts, but he was invariably treated like some spotty teenager. Well he’d show them. He’d get respect if it was the last thing he did.

  That’s what his mission was all about, and so far he was on track. OK, so he should be sharing with the team – and he had done, to an extent – but the info he’d gleaned from the manager of the Zodiac club could solve both the case and his persecution problem in one fell swoop.

  Hill jumped as the bar door opened and someone came out. The man paused to light a cigarette, then walked briskly down the street with his collar turned up against the light summer rainfall. Hill peered through the windscreen. It was him all right, the guy the manager had pointed out – the skinny Asian in the sharp suit who called himself Jag. Hill had produced a photo of the dead bloke and asked the manager if he knew him. “Twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, regular,” was the response. “Always sits in the corner, talks to the skinny geezer. Never stays long. Why? What’s up?”

  Hill had declined to answer, enjoying the unusual feeling of having the upper hand in a conversation with a barman. “Police business, I’m afraid,” he had told the white-smocked manager. “Thanks for your time.”

  Hill had clocked the guy in the corner on his way out; he was alone, talking on his mobile. Hill had resolved there and then to wait until this Jag guy decided to leave.

  Jag got into a silver Merc E Class saloon and gunned off down the road. Hill followed at a discreet distance, excitement pumping through his veins. As he negotiated the one-way system he tried to remember the rules for tailing a suspect. Not too close, keep him in sight, get a car or two between you if possible...

  They hit the M4 and Hill was pleased to see that Jag had adopted a constant middle-lane speed; he wouldn’t have to burn up the fast lane to keep him in sight. But where was he headed? Maidenhead? Slough? London? His question was soon answered as the Merc indicated at the sign for the turn-off to Slough West and pulled into the slow lane.

  Hill maintained his distance as they crawled through Chalvey. One left and another left later the Merc pulled up outside a row of terraces. Hill parked behind a white van and waited. Jag approached the middle terrace, knocked and was admitted.

  Hill relaxed. Now what? He looked at his watch. Ten pm. Early enough for something else to happen. In that case ... he flipped the backrest switch and settled down to wait. His thoughts drifted. He wondered what Helen was doing. Was it worth trying again? Why not? He’d talk to her in the morning. Hill closed his eyes and thought pleasant thoughts. Sleep took him unawares. The clock hands moved slowly around the dashboard display. Hill slept on.

  He awoke with a start, the sound of a door slamming jolting him to wakefulness. For a second he had no idea where he was. Then, as he saw the thin man walking along the pavement towards him, it all came back in a rush. Someone else was coming out of the house. Hill watched him lock up and join Jag by the Merc. The two men got into the car and the engine fired.

  What should he do? Follow? Hill racked his brains. Wait. The house could well be empty. Perhaps he would find conclusive evidence, or at least a lead of some sort. Something he could wave in DS Banner’s smirking face.

  He waited until the Merc had turned the corner and the street was quiet. He looked at his watch. Just before one o’clock. With a shock of guilt he realised he’d been out for the count for three hours. Great surveillance work, Jimmy boy. Better not put that in the report...

  There was a side alley between the terraces. He checked the street, checked the other houses for curtain twitchers and quickly made his way to the rear of the block. The back garden was a rubbish dump, with overflowing bins, discarded papers, an overgrown lawn – hardly a lawn, more a patch of scrub. No lights. A back door, paint peeling. Hill tried it. Locked, of course. He fished in his pocket. The second key fitted. It usually did, unless the lock was an expensive one, which this clearly wasn’t. Nothing to hide? We shall see, Hill whispered to himself, and prodded the door open.

  Silence met his first step inside. He was in the kitchen. He fired up his mobile’s flashlight app and held his phone in front of him. A circular table stood in the centre of the room; dirty plates and empty takeaway containers were scattered on its Formica top, on the draining board, on every available surface. The sink was piled with unwashed dishes.

  A staircase loomed on Hill’s right. Ahead, another room – the living room. Before it, another door; a cupboard maybe? Hill moved forward cautiously, tried the handle. A black space, stairs leading down. A musty, damp smell floated up from the depths.

  He paused, listening, all his senses tingling. Had he heard something? He hesitated by the basement door, flicked off the phone’s beam. He could hear his heart pounding. A minute passed. Another. Hill took a breath, composed himself and stepped onto the basement staircase.

  Six steps and he was at the bottom. The floor was unfinished, covered with dust and rubble; a rectangular wooden table was the sole piece of furniture. He turned on the flashlight again and the beam played on the clear plastic bags stacked in a neat pile, the contents gleaming like snow in the moonlight.

  Hill caught his breath, hardly daring to believe he’d hit a bull’s eye with his first throw. He was deliberating whether or not to take a sample with him when the basement door ab
ove closed with a bang, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a key turning in the lock.

  A voice called down. “Don’t bother calling for help, Mr Snooper – no one’s gonna hear you down there. I’ll see you later, my friend. We’re going to have a nice little talk, just you and me.”

  Hill heard the front door slam, footsteps receding, a car engine firing. He cursed himself for an idiot. They must have made him all along. He called up his contacts on the phone. No signal. Damn.

  It was half past one. It was going to be a long night.

  “So,” Moran finished his espresso with a satisfied flourish, “What was it you wanted to ask me, Shona?”

  It had been an enjoyable meal, the conversation a good deal less awkward than their previous meeting. Shona seemed more relaxed, more at ease. Were it not for the day’s events Moran would have been feeling relaxed too, but he couldn’t get the image of Reed-Purvis’ face out of his head, nor the note pinned to his door. Forensics was also taking its time over the paint sample.

  And there was something else, too; Bagri had called him with an update. He had found something in Reed-Purvis’ stomach – fragments of glass and metal, the detailed analysis of which was also taking longer than usual, thereby adding to his frustration. The chief was back soon and Moran wanted evidence to support his hunch while there was still time. There was also something about Sheldrake; he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was there nevertheless, an uneasiness that had nothing to do with his being pushed off the case. Well I’m not off it yet, Moran thought to himself. Not yet...

  “Brendan? Are you with me?”

  He shook his head self-deprecatingly. “I’m sorry, Shona – it’s been a long day.”

  “Lots on your mind?”

  “As ever.” He gave her a thin smile. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude. Please – tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Shona fiddled with her napkin. A waiter arrived to collect the coffee cups. After Moran had assured him that their needs had been satisfied, Shona paused for a moment until she could be sure she was not going to be overheard.

  “I have a problem,” she began, “and I don’t quite know how to explain it.”

  “Try me.” Moran gave her a smile of encouragement. “I’ll do my best.”

  “If you had a friend, and they were in trouble, you’d help them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course. If I could.”

  Shona nodded. “But let’s say they didn’t know what was best for them. Would you try to make them see sense?”

  Moran poured a glass of water and offered the pitcher, but Shona waved it away. He took a sip and considered his response.

  “I would, in all likelihood, yes. But it’s difficult to say for sure unless I know the circumstances.”

  “But would you? Would you make sure they did the right thing?”

  “Well, that depends on what the ‘right thing’ might be. As long as I wasn’t treading on their toes, or being too heavy-handed, I’d–”

  “Is that it?” Shona’s cheeks had coloured. “You think I’m being heavy-handed?”

  Moran held up both hands, alarmed at her reaction. “No, of course not. I don’t know the whole story, so–”

  “You think this is all my fault?” Shona had got up, pushed her chair back. Flushed and shaking with anger, she jabbed her finger at Moran. “You’re just like the others, you haven’t a clue!”

  Moran was stunned. Other couples in the restaurant had turned to see what was going on. The buzz of conversation had died. The head waiter hovered by the bar, ready to step in.

  Moran held up his hand. “It’s OK,” he said. “Shona, please, sit down. I didn’t mean to–”

  Shona glared at him; “Well, you should have thought of that before.” And with this baffling riposte, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the restaurant. Moran saw her silhouetted figure walk briskly past the window.

  Conversation resumed. The head waiter smiled sympathetically. Moran shook his head. What had he said? He turned the conversation over in his mind. There was nothing untoward. How could there have been? She hadn’t told him anything – hadn’t given him a chance.

  After a while the waiter brought the bill. Moran took the opportunity to order a grappa and a second espresso. He winced as the fiery liqueur burned his throat.

  Women. How were mere men supposed to understand them?

  She was easy to follow and Gregory Neads was an expert. He tracked her across town feeling relaxed and confident. Of course she hadn’t sussed him. He waited until Shona had parked and locked her car, and then he cruised by as though he was heading for another road or looking for a parking space. He watched her in the wing mirror. Which house? Shona walked quickly from her vehicle, turned and opened a small iron gate.

  Neads estimated that he would easily reach her before she could get the key in the lock. He prepared to move, but then something surprising happened. Neads relaxed into his seat and shook his head in disbelief. Well, well, well. He hadn’t been expecting that... His smile widened and soon became a fixed, contented grin. So, he thought happily, as he steered the car out of Shona’s road and rejoined the dual carriageway. That explains a lot...

  Chapter 8

  Phelps listened patiently to Moran’s list of issues and problems. It was a long one. Moran tried to make it shorter but one seemed to follow another. Eventually he finished and let out a sigh of frustration.

  Phelps chewed a biro thoughtfully. “You know what you’re doing, guv?”

  “Most of the time, Phelps. Not always.”

  “No, I mean all that stuff you’ve just come out with.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Phelps leaned over and picked up Moran’s coffee mug. “Two sugars?”

  “Come on, Phelps, the suspense is killing me.”

  “You’re catastrophising, guv.” Phelps plugged the battered kettle into the wall socket and spooned coffee into his and Moran’s mugs.

  “Is that what I’m doing now, DI Phelps?” Moran smiled despite his mood. “And that’ll be one of your candle-burning concepts, no doubt?”

  Phelps splashed longlife milk into the mugs. “Since you ask, guv, I have touched on the subject during the course of my studies.”

  “Well, good for you. Thanks.” Moran accepted the steaming coffee. His head would be grateful to have an ally in the war against the effects of last night’s grappa. “Let’s start with Hill. When did he last grace us with his presence?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, guv. He said he had one bar left on his list.”

  “Being?”

  “The Zodiac, Friar Street.”

  “OK. Anyone tried to knock him up?”

  “Yep. Banner tried on his way to Mukhandra. Got a no show.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t want to answer the door to Banner?”

  Phelps gulped a mouthful of coffee. “Point taken, guv, but he wasn’t in. Car wasn’t there.”

  Moran sighed. What he didn’t need right now was a member of his team going AWOL. Hill was sensitive, and Moran knew he took a lot of stick. Maybe he’d had enough, bunked off somewhere. Moran drummed his fingers on the desk. Then again, maybe not.

  “Pop down to the Zodiac, Phelps, would you? See if he paid them a visit.”

  “No probs, guv. What’s on your agenda?”

  Moran knocked the coffee back. His headache was receding a little, being replaced by a not unpleasant caffeinated buzz. “Doctor’s appointment first, then a spot of glass reconstruction – followed, I trust, by the faintest of lights at the end of our tunnel.”

  Phelps raised his eyebrows. “Sounds promising, guv, if a little cryptic. But you know what Arlo Guthrie says?”

  “Arlo who?”

  “Guthrie. The American poet. He says, you can’t have a light without a dark to stick it in.”

  “True, Phelps, very true.” Moran stood up and fished his coat off the hook. “But neither must we forget to turn our faces to the sun, that the shadows may
fall behind us. Eh?” Moran retrieved his stick and shrugged on his raincoat, enjoying Phelps’ perplexed expression. “Not heard that before, Detective Inspector?” Moran grinned. “Old Maori proverb.”

  DC Hill had given up trying to force the door. It was strong and the lock was a heavy, old-fashioned iron job. He had little choice except to wait and see what happened when his gaoler returned. He’d show his ID and put the fear of God into whoever this guy was. Surely they wouldn’t detain a serving police officer any longer? But then there were the drugs; Hill knew the sort of people who were likely to be involved in trafficking on this scale. There was no point in deluding himself. He was in deep trouble.

  Just don’t panic, keep your cool...

  He took a few deep breaths to chase the panic away. He needed a plan. Or a weapon. Preferably both. But apart from the table there was nothing useful to hand. Hill also had another problem: he needed to move his bowels. Least of your worries, James... but the stomach cramps were becoming more urgent. Hill tightened his buttocks. There was no way he was going to go down here, like some caged animal.

  Then he heard the front door open and shut, the muffled sound of shuffling footsteps above. Fear coursed through his body like a live current, undoing all his disciplined restraint. With a sob of frustration he dropped his trousers and voided his bowels on the dirt floor.