Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  Phelps passed the house and found a space a few metres past the property. The terraces had been constructed with a covered side passage. No lights were on as far as Moran could tell; it looked as though the entire row was deserted.

  “Round the back, guv?”

  “Round the back.”

  They approached the terrace. Moran gripped his stick hard. His intuition seldom gave him false alarms, and right now his internal radar was buzzing like a Fylingdales early warning alarm.

  The grey council render was flaking and cracked, the replacement aluminium window frames tarnished and ill-maintained. As they approached the passageway Phelps stopped in his tracks. Moran had heard it too, a muffled thump, as if something heavy had been thrown down. They advanced more cautiously. Moran blinked to encourage his night vision as they entered the passageway.

  The rear garden was a mess, a junk yard. Phelps motioned Moran closer. The back door was ajar. Phelps pushed it gently and stepped back. No reaction from inside.

  He flicked on his Lenser and played the spot beam around the kitchen’s tatty interior. A staircase to their immediate right led directly upstairs. There were two doors, one adjacent to the stairwell, probably a cupboard, and another directly ahead which was open, and led into the front room.

  Moran stepped carefully across the kitchen floor and went into the front room. A car went by in the street, casting an orange flood of light over the threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper. It was barely furnished, just an old three-piece and a low coffee table. No pictures, TV, stereo. A blank canvas. Moran rejoined Phelps in the kitchen.

  “Smell something, guv?” Phelps wrinkled his nose.

  Moran could. It was a familiar smell. Faeces and vomit – and something else. But where was it coming from?

  Phelps motioned to the stairs and cocked his head. Moran nodded and slipped back into the living room. The smell receded. He heard Phelps’ heavy tread creaking across the floorboards upstairs and checked the room again. There seemed to be nothing amiss.

  Moran half turned to retrace his steps, but as he did so a figure exploded from the kitchen’s middle door, the one Moran had mistaken for a cupboard. The door flew back on its hinges and hindered Moran’s lurching return to the kitchen, catching his leg and his stick and knocking him off balance. A bulky silhouette appeared briefly in the rectangle of the back door and was gone.

  Phelps thundered down the stairs, beating Moran by half a second. As they exited the passageway a diesel engine burst into life and a silver Mercedes ripped itself from the line of parked vehicles and accelerated away, fishtailing from one side of the road to the other before its driver regained control. It took the corner on two wheels and was gone.

  Moran was on his mobile. He’d only got the first part of the registration, but it would do for pursuit. Passing the information to Banner he signed off and returned to the house. His leg ached where the door had caught it. Damn. Why hadn’t he checked? Not a cupboard, Moran, you Irish tosser – a basement...

  Phelps was already there, probing the darkness of the basement with his Lenser. The foul smell grew stronger until the powerful beam picked out the prone shape of DC Hill lying face down in a pool of blood and vomit.

  “Bastards.” Phelps held the torch steady as Moran bent and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but it was present. He cradled Hill’s battered head in his arms.

  “Don’t die, son,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Don’t you even think about it.”

  As the ambulance tail lights disappeared into the night Moran sat on the low garden wall and wished for a cigarette. Hill had been stupid. He’d got his lead and followed it alone, the worst mistake in the book. Moran understood why, but that didn’t help.

  He watched as the terraced house was illuminated from within by the SOCO’s harsh lighting. The previously silent street was now alive with police activity, although Moran noted that members of the public were conspicuous by their absence. This area of Chalvey was clearly out of bounds.

  “I’m going to the hospital, Phelps,” he told the acting DI. “I’m relying on you and Banner to bring in our runaway driver, OK?”

  Phelps nodded. “Banner says they’ve got the Merc heading west, guv. Approaching Junction 11. I’m on it.” The sergeant gave a brief wave and squeezed into a waiting car with an agility that never failed to surprise Moran.

  He watched the blue light of the Battenberg-marked police car recede towards the M4 and wearily limped up the street to his own vehicle. Was he to blame for what had happened to Hill? On paper, no, but what did paper have to do with it? He sat quietly for a minute, and then ground the car into gear and pulled away. As he left Chalvey behind he wondered how he was going to break the news to DC Helen McKellar.

  Chapter 12

  Moran sensed the sombre atmosphere as soon as he entered the station. He nodded to the duty sergeant on his way to the lift and received a terse jerk of the head in return. Everyone knew about Reed-Purvis, and by now everyone would know about Hill. Although officers were keenly aware of the risks and demands of their job, the injury or death of a colleague never lost the power to shock.

  Moran found Banner and McKellar waiting in the IR. They both looked drawn and grey-faced, especially McKellar. Moran didn’t feel much better himself, having spent most of the night at the hospital.

  McKellar stood up. “Morning, guv. Is there any–?”

  Moran held up his hand. “DC Hill is still in the ICU, but the consultant is cautiously optimistic – his words. Hard to say any more at this stage. There’s a touch of swelling around the brain...” Moran shrugged. “I can’t shed any further light. I’m sorry.”

  McKellar gave a brief nod. “Thank you, sir. Coffee?”

  “Thank you, DC McKellar.” He gave the pretty DC a tight smile, impressed by her poise. She would be ideal for what he had in mind. He placed his stick against the whiteboard and threw his coat onto a nearby chair. A glance at the clock told him it was seven in the morning.

  “Here you go, guv.” McKellar placed the steaming drink on his desk.

  “Thanks. Can you ask Banner to come in?”

  “Guv.”

  When both officers were seated Moran asked for an update on the Mercedes pursuit.

  “Caught up with him near Swindon,” Banner began. Something in the sergeant’s tone told Moran that the outcome had not been good.

  “He went off the motorway, guv,” McKellar picked up the baton. “Hit the central reservation and turned over. He was doing over a ton.” She shrugged miserably.

  Moran sighed. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He reached for his coffee, but finding it too hot he contented himself with an inhalation of caffeine fumes.

  “Dead, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Banner said. “But guess what else was in the car?”

  “Don’t tell me. A box of heroin or ten.”

  Banner and McKellar exchanged glances.

  “Twenty-five kilos, guv.” McKellar bit her lip.

  “Twenty-five?” Moran whistled. “That’d be worth, what, two to three million on the street?”

  Banner nodded. “Give or take.”

  “Does Sheldrake know?”

  “We haven’t heard from him,” McKellar said. “But his DS was poking around here yesterday. I was going to mention it.”

  “Oh yes? What did she want?”

  “Asking about the wrap up.” Banner scratched his forehead. “Wants us to get a move on.”

  “We agreed close of play Thursday.” Moran shook his head. “Bloody OCG.”

  “They seem very keen to hang on to this one, guv.” McKellar shifted in her chair and Moran caught a brief whiff of perfume that stabbed at his memory. Tweed. Kay had worn Tweed; it had been her favourite fragrance.

  He shook the thought away. “Keen? They’ll be even keener when they find out what you were up to last night,” Moran sipped his coffee with a grimace.

  “Would you like some more milk?”

  “No, I’m fine, t
hanks.” Moran drummed his fingers on the desk in a marching tempo, a habit that he was hardly aware of. His team knew that it usually preceded a decision.

  “Right,” he said after a few seconds. “Not a word to Bessie about the heroin. I want it kept to ourselves for now. Clear?”

  “Guv.” They both nodded.

  “Make sure it’s safely under lock and key in the evidence room, please. Now, you two are going to spend a couple of days doing your favourite thing.”

  McKellar frowned and Banner raised his eyebrows.

  “Hanging around in bars.” Moran took a tentative sip of coffee. “Actually, one bar in particular.”

  “The Zodiac?” Banner asked.

  “The Zodiac.”

  Banner let out a resigned sigh. “With her?”

  “Oh, thanks,” McKellar said, giving Banner a filthy look. “The feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.”

  “Now now, children.” Moran got up and walked around his desk, placing a benevolent hand on each officer’s shoulder. “You’re young. New to the area. Really into each other. You love a good time. Good at making friends. Got the picture?”

  He bent so that his head was between theirs. “You’re going to find out who carries a bottle of gamma-hydroxybutyrate around our happy little joint – and more importantly, why they picked on DS Reed-Purvis.” Moran straightened up. “Was it our friends the dealers? Did they suss her out? Or was it an opportunist? If so, what was the motive? Any connection with Slough? Was it the same guy who killed Bling Boy, or someone else? Who was Reed-Purvis talking to before she left the Zodiac on Tuesday night? Where was DS Flynn? Sheldrake said she and Reed-Purvis were working together; she should have been somewhere in the vicinity. The quantity of the drug administered suggests that our bad guy wasn’t interested in date rape. Far from it,” Moran said grimly. “He was only interested in making sure DS Reed-Purvis was taken out of the picture.”

  “Because she found out something she wasn’t supposed to?” McKellar said, almost to herself.

  Moran downed his coffee in two large gulps. “Well, that’s for you two lovebirds to find out.”

  McKellar made a face and Banner looked out of the window.

  “Off you go, then.” Moran clapped his hands. “You’ll have lots to talk about. I’m sure DS Banner is capable of a modicum of gentlemanly behaviour, given a little encouragement.”

  “Anything else?” Moran peered through the shattered windscreen of the wrecked Mercedes. The interior had been painstakingly disassembled in the search for further items of interest. The case with its packed bags of heroin was under lock and key in the evidence room – and there Moran was determined it would stay, until he’d uncovered enough evidence that the Reading murders were linked to the heroin haul. From that point on Sheldrake was welcome to it.

  “Not a lot,” a weary forensics officer admitted. “A leather wallet.” He held up the bagged item for Moran’s inspection. “No money. No ID. Couple of business cards. Want a look?”

  “Anything you’ve got is worth a look.” Moran took the bag and carefully fished out the wallet. Inside he found two cards. The first was from a London financial advisor, the second a local physiotherapy practice. “Mind if I hang on to this?”

  “Be my guest,” the officer said. “I’ll let you know if we turn up anything else.”

  “Thanks.”

  Moran examined the cards on his way to the lift. As he exited on the second floor and made his way through to the IR his mobile announced a new text message. Moran thumbed the text icon and did a double take. The sender was ‘Neads, Greg’.

  The text read: ‘Sorry to hear about DC Hill. Shame. Reckon you need some help on this one, Moran. Still, you know where I am. Oh, hang on, you don’t, do you?’

  Moran’s face was like thunder as he entered the IR. No one dared ask why.

  Phelps entered the canteen to be greeted with the familiar waft of bacon and chip fat. The room was uncomfortably warm, the sun streaming in through two large plate glass windows which acted like a giant magnifying glass, bathing the breakfasting officers in a relentless pool of heat.

  Phelps mopped his brow and searched the room for his friend, DS Chris Newland. He’d known Chris since training, a period of his life that now seemed impossibly distant, as though the events and people he’d met in those youthful, carefree days were part of someone else’s life, not his own. He and Chris had kept in touch, even worked in the same team occasionally when circumstances had conjoined favourably to bring them together. James lived in Maidenhead. He was a family man like Phelps himself – golfing at weekends, holidaying in France at the same campsite each year, content with his role, his career, his friends and his attractive blonde wife. Chris was rock solid, the one person – apart from Brendan Moran – whom Phelps would trust with his life. Not to mention a few discreet questions about certain key associates in Organised Crime.

  Chris saw him first, raising his fork aloft and waving Phelps to the table he was sharing with two other men Phelps didn’t recognise. As he approached the two unfamiliar officers rose simultaneously and made off with their trays and a cursory nod of acknowledgement in Phelps’ direction.

  “Something I said?” Phelps grinned and pulled up a chair.

  “Still look like trouble, even in your old age,” Chris observed through a mouthful of egg and toast. “Good to see you, Bob. What brings you into the hallowed confines of OCG?”

  “Just wanted a chat, really.” Phelps declined Chris’ offer of a slice of toast. His stomach was playing up this morning and the canteen smells had made him feel a little queasy.

  Chris cocked his head in a familiar gesture and reached for his coffee cup. “Oh yes? What about?”

  Phelps hesitated. It was always awkward, asking questions about fellow officers. Had to be done, though. He felt another spasm of nausea wash through his stomach. Something he’d eaten? Unlikely; he’d only had a plain cheese salad for tea last night. Probably just the heat.

  “Are you OK, Bob? Your face is as pale as the canteen wall.”

  “Fine – just bit tired, that’s all. Do you know a guy by the name of Sheldrake?”

  “DCS Sheldrake? Yes. As a matter of fact I worked with him last month. Some house-to-house, a bit of surveillance.”

  “What did you think of him?” Phelps took out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead.

  “Hard-nosed bugger. No sense of humour, But good at what he does,” Chris conceded. “One thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He likes to keep his team on a leash. Once you’re with him, you generally stay. I was an exception.”

  “So how did you escape?”

  “I was only on loan, for three weeks. It was enough.”

  Phelps pushed his chair back as a canteen lady clattered by with a trolley. He caught a fresh waft of grease-laden air and had to stop himself gagging.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Not really. This weather; it’s too damned hot.”

  “Make the most of it. Winter is just around the corner.” Chris buttered a fresh slice of toast and spread marmalade liberally over the browned surface.

  “You sound like Michael bloody Fish.” Phelps winced as a dull pain pulsed in his left arm. He massaged it distractedly and poured himself a glass of water from the corrugated plastic jug on the table. “D’you know Sheldrake’s DS? Sharron Flynn?”

  “High-flying Flynn?” Chris shook his head and grimaced. “She’s a nightmare.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Chris finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Too ambitious for her own good, that one. Total pain. But,” James interlocked his fingers, “her and Sheldrake, they’re like that.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Too right.” Chris leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “The rumour machine is on overdrive with those two. Sheldrake’s married; Flynn isn’t.”

  “Reckon he’s skiing off piste?” Phelps raised
his eyebrows.

  Chris scraped his chair back, stretched his legs under the table and yawned. “Could be. But you know what the rumour machine is like.” Chris wiped his brow with his napkin. “You’re right, it’s stifling in here. Shall we have a wander outside?”

  Phelps followed Chris into the car park. His arm still ached but the nausea seemed to have passed. He reached automatically for a cigarette, frowning at the depleted packet. Had he really smoked fifteen since yesterday afternoon? He had to cut down. After this pack.

  They found a seat on the entrance foyer wall and enjoyed the spectacle of a red-faced sergeant attempting to manoeuvre his car into a ridiculously tight space.

  “Car park still a nightmare, then.” Phelps blew smoke and shook his head. You could never get a space here unless you were on nights. Same old same old. He turned to Chris. “Still on the bike?”

  Chris grinned. “Only way to travel.”

  “Even in this?” Phelps waved vaguely at the cloudless sky and shook his head. “You must feel like a well-done joint of beef after twenty-five miles in all that leather gear.”

  “You never did get it, Bob. It’s the freedom, the convenience–”

  “And the budget,” Phelps offered morosely.

  “That too.” Chris nodded. “Damn sight cheaper than running a car. Anyway, why the interest in Sheldrake and co.? Come on, spit it out.”

  Phelps shrugged and flicked ash towards the shrub border. “In a nutshell? He’s trying to muscle in on our murder enquiry.”

  “Who’s the guv?”

  “Brendan Moran.”

  “Ah. Now, Moran I like. He’s been out of it, though, hasn’t he? The explosion at Charnford?”

  “It’ll take more than that to keep DCI Moran off his feet for any length of time,” Phelps said with conviction.

  The humid air hung closely around the two men like heavy water as an airliner droned a cotton vapour trail across the perfect blue of an otherwise empty sky. The car-parking sergeant scuttled by with an embarrassed dip of the head on his way into reception.