Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  Phelps had one hand on the door handle of his car when he happened to glance across at the parade of shops opposite. He growled under his breath as he recognised DS Neads – ex DS Neads, he corrected himself – hovering outside the newsagents. Doing nothing in particular. Waiting.

  Loitering...

  Phelps strode across the dual carriageway despite its accident blackspot status; he wanted to get to Neads quickly, and if he used the subway it would take longer. The hot weather had produced its usual quota of loony driving, so Phelps took extra care as he wove between passing traffic, the action earning him a double blast of horns and one raised fist. Neads watched him approach, a humourless grin playing about his lips.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t faithful Sergeant Phelps, right-hand man extraordinaire.”

  “Look, Neads, I don’t know what you think you’re doing hanging around here. Take my advice and clear off.”

  “Subtle to a fault, Sergeant.” Neads lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand and sucked in smoke. “I’m not breaking the law, you know.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Neads. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, DS Phelps?” Neads tapped ash onto the pavement. The day was windless and still. Passers-by hurried up and down the parade, the women showing off tattoos on shoulders, arms, cleavage, their men pale-legged in ill-fitting shorts and designer-copy sunglasses.

  “It’s not a question of like, Neads,” Phelps said, mopping his brow with a spotless white handkerchief. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. I know you’ve had a hard time. It could have been anyone. It could have been me.”

  Neads laughed. “Could have been; should have been. Whatever. Makes no difference now.”

  Phelps could see the scar on Neads’ hand as the young man drew on his cigarette. It was ugly. He felt a sudden wave of sympathy. “Look, Neads, take my advice: book yourself a holiday, a change of scene. Chase some women. Think about your future. Be positive.”

  “Oh, well, thanks for the prescription. I’ll be sure to do that. Then all my troubles will be over, right?”

  Phelps decided on a harder approach. “There’s no point feeling sorry for yourself, Neads. It won’t help.”

  Neads drew smoke and maintained eye contact. After a moment he exhaled and spat a gobbet of phlegm into the gutter. “Pleasure talking to you, Detective Sergeant Phelps. Must dash.” Neads flicked his stub into the road and, with a final look of defiance, walked casually away.

  “Don’t let me see you hanging around here again,” Phelps called to Neads’ back.

  A group of shoppers stared. “What’re you looking at?” Phelps growled, mopping his perspiring brow with what was now a very damp handkerchief. He slung his jacket over the crook of his arm and wove back across the road to the car park. As he pulled out he saw Neads standing in the same spot outside the newsagents, one arm raised in mock-salute.

  Chapter 9

  “Maybe.” The Zodiac barman sniffed. “Hard to say. Get all sorts down here.”

  Phelps grimaced as the sound system crashed into life with a pounding bass line and a noise like a rupturing petrol tank. “Turn that racket off,” he mouthed.

  The barman reluctantly went to the end of the bar and fiddled under the counter. The thumping in Phelps’ gut eased, marginally.

  “He was a policeman, remember?” Phelps prompted. “You would have been able to tell by the nice shiny ID card he would’ve shown you.”

  The barman frowned and shrugged.

  Phelps glanced around the bar. It was half full, but the clientele were clearly not on lunch breaks from town centre offices. Three unshaven youths in jeans and T-shirts leaned on the bar downing lager; two or three over-made-up girls nursed half-empty glasses, waiting desultorily for business. A couple of Big Issue vendors were arguing in raised, slurred voices. Phelps turned back to the barman.

  “Yes, I think I probably could.”

  “Could what?”

  “Bust most of your lunchtime clients,” Phelps said reasonably. “And I could always pop down again tonight to bust a few more. Does that help your cognitive processes?”

  The barman scratched his head. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. Baby-faced lad?” he grinned, his crooked incisors protruding like mandibles. His breath smelled of stale alcohol and cigarettes.

  Phelps took an involuntary step back. “Time?”

  “’Bout ten ish, I s’pose.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Nothin’ much. He showed me a photo. Asked about the skinny bloke.”

  “And who might that be?” Phelps asked patiently.

  The barman folded his cloth and reached for a glass. He pulled himself a half of Tennants. “Want one?”

  Phelps shook his head.

  The barman took a swig and grinned again. “He was just a bloke down ’ere last night. Can’t say as I know who he was.”

  “You don’t know why DC Hill asked about him?”

  “Nah. Why should I?”

  Phelps grimaced as another wave of halitosis-laden breath wafted into his personal space. “Because,” he leaned across the bar, trying not to breathe through his nose, “you might have told DC Hill something about him which sparked his interest, that’s why.”

  “Not me,” the barman shook his head. “I don’t know a lot to tell.”

  “Really?” Phelps scribbled his phone number onto a beer mat. “Well, there’s no time like the present to build on your knowledge, as my mother used to say.”

  “Eh?”

  Phelps pressed the beer mat to the man’s chest. “You’re going to find out all about this ‘skinny bloke’. I don’t care how, but when you have, you call me. If you don’t, I’ll be back. And I may not be in a very good mood.”

  Phelps glowered to make his point clear, took a last look around the bar and left.

  “Ate it?” Moran’s face creased in disbelief. “She swallowed a light bulb?”

  Dr Bagri bowed his confirmation. “Yes indeed, Inspector Moran. A brake light bulb, if I am to be specific.”

  Moran was speechless with admiration. DS Reed-Purvis had been a very brave and level-headed officer; injured, drugged and trapped in the boot of her assailant’s car, she had nevertheless found a way to improve the odds of tracing the vehicle. If anyone was deserving of a posthumous decoration, Reed-Purvis had to be first in line. Moran made a mental note to brief the Superintendent on his return.

  Another thought occurred to him. “The paint, Dr Bagri?”

  Bagri beamed. “Crystal Blue, they are calling it. A clear match for an Audi A4 2.0 TDi TDV SE, 2006. For which, I might add, the brake light is also a suitable fit.”

  Moran could have hugged the little pathologist, but he contented himself with a vigorous handshake. “You’re a ruddy marvel, Dr Bagri. Thanks a million.”

  “And toxicology report is also done; the lab has been busy and so it has taken a little longer than I had hoped. But I think you will find it interesting.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes, for sure. Actually there is evidence of gamma-hydroxybutyrate in the blood.”

  Moran frowned. “The date rape drug?”

  “Exactly so, but if it is administered in this high dosage it will lead to unconsciousness, and then eventually coma and death.”

  Moran was stunned. “How long before the drug takes effect?”

  Bagri cocked his head to one side, an habitual mannerism when asked his opinion. “It will be actually be, for a normal person, between fifteen and thirty minutes.”

  “Good God,” Moran said, half to himself. He refocused on Bagri’s anxious face. “So, can we tell if the drug was administered before she was attacked, or afterwards?”

  “Mmm. Difficult, Chief Inspector. I am thinking we would need to establish her behaviour in the time before the attack.”

  “What effects would you expect?”

  “Ah. Nausea, maybe a little dizziness.”

  “But she woul
d still have been mobile? I mean, for a quarter of an hour or so?”

  “She was a fit woman, so yes; I would say that is very likely.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Dr Bagri.” Moran left the lab and hurried back to his car. This case was beginning to stink.

  “I don’t believe it,” Phelps muttered under his breath. He was half way between the Zodiac and his car. Limping towards him was the unwelcome sight of ex DS Neads. Now what?

  “Lost something, have we?” Neads looked Phelps up and down.

  “You’re going to lose something if you don’t push off.” Phelps felt his self control sliding away. “I’m busy. Go and find something better to do with your time.”

  Neads squared up to Phelps. “And you wouldn’t call locating missing policemen a fruitful use of my time?”

  Phelps froze. “What did you say? Do you know where DC Hill is? Now listen, Neads–” Phelps grabbed the younger man’s arm – “you’d better fess up, boy, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Is that a threat, Detective Sergeant Phelps? I am a member of the public, you know. I wouldn’t like to have to make a complaint – especially as you fellows do such a great job–”

  Phelps resisted the urge to clock him and lowered his voice. “What have you done with DC Hill?”

  “Me? I haven’t done anything with him.” Neads shrugged off Phelps’s grip. For a man with a wiry build he was certainly strong enough.

  Phelps tried a different tack. “OK, Neads; what do you want?”

  Neads shrugged. “Nothing much. A job, a life. A new pair of hands.” He held them up. Phelps almost recoiled at the sight; the palms were a mass of ugly scar tissue. Neads laughed bitterly. “Feet aren’t much better.”

  “You do know where Hill is,” Phelps said quietly. “How?”

  “Simple. I followed him.”

  “So, where is he?”

  “Ah. Now that would be telling.”

  Phelps squared his shoulders. “Neads, I’m going to arrest you for obstruction if you don’t tell me, right now, exactly where I can find DC Hill. Understand?”

  That was when both men heard the sickening double thump of a passing car making contact with human flesh. There was a moment’s vacuum-like stillness, and then someone screamed.

  “Where is DS Phelps, would someone oblige me?”

  “Dealing with an RTA, sir. Outside the Zodiac. He’s just called in. He said he had something on James – I mean DC Hill, sir.” The young DC blushed and fiddled with the papers on her desk.

  So someone’s holding a candle for you, young Hill, Moran thought, repressing a smile. “Thank you, DC McKellar. ETA?”

  “He said about thirty minutes, sir.”

  “Right. Anyone got anything else?” Moran roamed the no man’s land in front of the whiteboard. On it were pinned various photographs: victims one and two, a new glossy of an Audi A4 2.0 TDi and Reed-Purvis’ woodland grave. Moran scanned the incident room. “DS Banner?”

  Banner stepped forward. He was a squat, muscular man of around thirty-three. Moran had never taken to him, but over the few months they had worked together he had proved himself to be a natural detective.

  “Spoke to colleagues of victim number two. All very shaken up. Nice guy, apparently. Bit cocky, one for the ladies. Name of Jay Dass.”

  “Go on.” Moran turned and began to write on the whiteboard. “Family?”

  “Lives – lived – with his father and mother in Slough.”

  “You’ll be talking to them, Sergeant?”

  Banner nodded. “Yes, guv. I’ve made an appointment for six o’clock this evening.”

  “Right. Have a good sniff around, Banner. The parents might think their boy was squeaky clean, but we don’t think the same until we’ve proved it to be the case.” Moran turned and faced the room. “Do we?”

  “No, guv,” the assembled officers intoned as one.

  “Guv?” DC McKellar’s hand was up.

  “Uh huh?”

  “You were saying that DS Reed-Purvis was drugged, guv. How are we going to find out what happened?”

  “Glad you asked, DC McKellar. I might need your services in that regard. Yours and Sergeant Banner’s.”

  Moran noticed the glance exchanged between the two officers. No love lost there, by the look of it. In Moran’s experience the best way to sort out an internal clash was to make the antagonists work together. After a while, provided all went well, professional respect eroded most of the bad feeling.

  He looked at each officer in turn. “I’ll tell you what I have in mind if you both come and see me first thing. Alright with you, Banner?”

  “Guv.”

  As the team dispersed Moran saw Sheldrake pushing his way into the room.

  “What do you think you’re playing at, Moran?” Sheldrake was wearing a black pinstripe suit and a blue tie. He was freshly shaved and his thinning grey hair was combed back from his angular face. He looked like he was going somewhere important. Good, Moran thought. Sheldrake in a hurry was better than Sheldrake with time on his hands. Moran adopted an innocent expression. “Can I help, sir?”

  “Don’t play games, Moran.” Sheldrake pointed to the whiteboard. “I told you to wind down your investigation into the town centre murders.”

  Moran pricked up his ears. “Murders, sir? I was under the impression that there was only one murder confirmed and attributed to Reading central?”

  Sheldrake harrumphed. “You know what I mean, Moran. DS Reed-Purvis and the Asian boy.”

  “Ah. Yes, sir. But I have another incident in Slough. I believe they may be connected.”

  Sheldrake thrust his face into Moran’s. The smell of aftershave was overpowering. “Listen to me, Moran. The Reed-Purvis case is mine, understand? If you think you’ve found a connection in Slough, you damn well filter it along to me or my sergeant. I thought I’d already made that clear.”

  “By Thursday, I believe you said, sir.” Moran consulted the wall calendar. “That gives me another couple of days by my calculations. In the meantime, I’ll be sure to inform you of any emerging links. We’ve almost completed our initial enquiries. Rest assured, I’ll personally brief you on the details.”

  “You’d better, Moran. You’d better.” Sheldrake turned on his polished heels and left, banging the door behind him.

  Banner looked up from his screen. “Problem, guv?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, Banner.” Moran studied the board. An image of Gregory Neads came into his head – the anger in the young man’s face; the terrible scars... Neads had been his responsibility, and so was DC Hill.

  Come on, Phelps. Hurry up...

  Moran drew a line between the photo of Reed-Purvis’ shallow grave and Bling Boy’s town centre shop front, adding a question mark above it for good measure. He muttered a silent prayer to any god that might be listening. Please. Just please don’t let me lose another one...

  “Well, stink-boy? Nothing more to say?”

  DC James Hill clamped his teeth together in a combination of bloody-minded determination and an overriding desire to hide his fear. No way was he going to give this guy the satisfaction.

  Hill was bound to a chair, very securely. Two of them had done that. After they had left him, someone else had come down into the cellar. Chinese; a big man with short black hair, receding at the front. His eyes held no compassion; empty windows, giving nothing away.

  “Come on, copper,” Chinaman said, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t be shy.”

  Hill’s face felt as if it had been through several rounds with Mike Tyson. He could taste blood and he knew that his nose was broken. He coughed as smoke was blown into his face and braced himself for the next pulverising blow. The pattern had been the same for – how long? He was losing track of time. He knew he had drifted in and out of consciousness two or three times at least, but each time he had been dragged back to uncomfortable reality by a hard slap on the cheek.

  The blow came, heavier and more painful than
the last. Hill cried out despite himself; his head rang like a badly tuned bell and splotchy stars danced before his eyes. He became aware of a low, moaning sound, and with a jolt he realised it was coming from his own mouth. He clamped his jaws shut and raised his chin. Chinaman blurred gradually into focus.

  “How did you know?” his tormentor purred.

  “Know what?” Hill braced himself. Nothing happened.

  “You are young. And stupid.” Chinaman took a contemplative pull on his cigarette. “That’s why you followed us. Without backup.”

  “I have backup,” Hill whispered, praying that it was true. “They’ll be looking.”

  Chinaman studied him with narrowed eyes, as though trying to read his mind. After a moment he said, “I don’t think so. Nobody knows where you are. I can take all the time I want. Now, tell me, please, about your busy little drugs op. What does your boss know? What does he think?”

  “I don’t work on drugs,” Hill said. “I’m following up a suspicious death.”

  “Are you, indeed? So, you are telling me that you stumbled across my business by accident? By luck?”

  “Lucky me,” Hill muttered.

  “Ha ha. Funny man.” Chinaman forced Hill’s chin up. “Who is in charge of your operation? What leads are they following?”

  Hill shook his head and then regretted it. It felt as though someone had stuffed a skewer in each ear. “Confidential, I’m afraid. Do you have any tea? I’m rather thirsty.”

  The blow came immediately and although Hill was ready for it, the force of the impact shook him so hard it felt as though his brain had become momentarily detached from the rest of his body. The pain was followed by the sick realisation that this man would not hesitate to kill him. More than that; he probably intended to. His head swam and then gradually cleared.

  Keeping his eyes shut he pulled gently against his bindings. There wasn’t a lot of slack to play with, but if he could spin the interrogation out he might just be able to work an arm loose. But Hill didn’t want to spin it out; he wanted it to stop. Even if he succeeded in freeing an arm, what then? It would be cramped, numb. He wouldn’t be able to strike with the necessary power; Chinaman could simply take a step back. He fought against the sudden wash of despair.