Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “Sure.” Moran sipped his pint. “Carry on.”

  Truth be told, Moran thought to himself as he watched Helen join in with the laughter and mounting din of conversation, his home and his bed appealed to him infinitely more than a night in the Falcon, but it was important for the team that he showed his face.

  Did they blame him? No, he felt sure that wasn’t the case. It was young Hill’s enthusiasm that had led to his downfall. Or rather, the way in which he’d chosen to channel that enthusiasm with his accurate but misguided solo effort.

  Moran looked over to where Banner was holding court, surrounded by his mates, cracking jokes and knocking the lager back as if there were no tomorrow. Was Banner to blame? He had taken every opportunity to rile Hill, to goad and belittle him. Is that why the young officer had gone off the rails? To prove himself? Moran drained his pint. What could you do? There were Banners in every police force. They had their plus points but had to be handled carefully. Even so, the high maintenance overheads generated by the Banners of this world invariably proved to be a complete pain in the gicker.

  Moran squeezed his way to the bar to order another pint. Last one for the evening, he promised himself. It had been a frustrating afternoon without any tangible progress. Strictly speaking, he knew, his time was up; but as Sheldrake had been conspicuous by his absence Moran had every intention of continuing the investigation until he was forced to stop. If Sheldrake had been sidetracked by some other commitment, so much the better. As Moran waited to be served he allowed his eyes to traverse the pub, pausing for a moment on each animated, smiling face. A reaffirmation of life, that’s what this was about. They weren’t here to be sad; they were here to celebrate being alive. James Hill would be remembered in those quiet moments at home, in the small hours, when the suppressed fears and anxieties had free rein over the drowsy, semi-conscious mind. But overriding the fear, one guilty, uninvited thought would surface again and again: I’m glad it wasn’t me...

  “Hello, sir.”

  Moran started at the voice in his ear. “Ah, DI Pepper. Welcome to our five star policeman’s watering hole. Drink?”

  “I’ll have a Beck’s, please, sir. Thanks.”

  “A pint of Brakspear’s and a Beck’s, please.” Moran placed his order with a young barmaid he didn’t recognise. Another one of Brian’s Polish protégés, no doubt. “Oh, and you can forget the ‘sir’, DI Pepper,” Moran told his new DI. “In my book, ‘sir’ is for Superintendents. ‘Guv’ suits me much better.”

  “Right you are.” Charlie Pepper gave him a cheeky smile. “And I’m Charlie, OK, guv?” She accepted the bottle, top off and foaming, and took what Moran considered to be a very unladylike swig.

  “Glass?” Moran queried.

  Charlie wrinkled her nose and gave him an odd look. “No way. Tastes better from the bottle. You should try it.”

  Moran took the head off his beer and made a satisfied noise in his throat. “Really? I think I’ll stick to the tried and traditional method, if that’s OK with you.” He smiled self-deprecatingly.

  “You sound like my Dad.” Charlie grinned. “He’s always on about tradition and the ‘proper’, old-fashioned way of doing things.”

  “Don’t.” Moran made a face. “You’ve no idea how old that makes me feel.”

  Charlie’s forehead creased in concern. “Oh, I didn’t mean you were old–”

  “No? Come on.” He took Charlie’s elbow. “Damage done. Time to meet a few of my favourite renegades, some of whom even go as far as to call themselves detectives. You’ll have to deal with them daily from now on, so you might as well make a start, eh?”

  Charlie laughed and raised her bottle. “Lead me to them.”

  Moran turned into his drive just before one in the morning. He was exhausted. There was so much going round in his head he knew that sleep would be a long time coming, if it came at all. He tried once again to mentally order the chaos by his usual process of prioritisation, but fatigue jumbled his thoughts.

  Two dead officers. Three dead civilians. What was the link? The more he pondered, the more he doubted his religious theory. But who would want to murder a Catholic priest? Drug-related crime he could understand, but this latest development made no sense. Perhaps Father Jeffries’ murder was entirely unrelated to the slaughter of the two Asian lads? If so, what did that mean?

  It means you have nothing, Moran, that’s what it means. It means there are more crazy people out there than even you can account for...

  He turned off the ignition and wearily pulled himself out of the car. As he approached his front door he noticed immediately that it was slightly ajar. Had he forgotten to lock it? Surely not? His senses went into red alert. He slipped past the dining room window and through the wooden gate leading to the garden. From the edge of the patio he could see that the lounge light was on. He never left the lounge light on.

  Moran returned to the car and retrieved his Maglite from the glove compartment. He approached the front door obliquely, edged onto the porch, eased himself through the front door and crept towards the lounge. There was a faint rustle of paper, as if someone had turned a page or folded a newspaper. Where was Archie? The little dog would inevitably greet him at the door whatever hour of the day or night Moran returned. Full of dread, he reached the lounge door and pushed it gently open.

  “You’re late.” Shona rose from the sofa as he entered and smiled a greeting.

  Moran felt the tension rush out of him. “Shona. What on earth? How did you get in?”

  “The door was open. I assumed you were in, but when I found the house empty I thought I’d better stick around just in case. Did you forget to lock up?”

  “I don’t think so. How long have you been here?”

  “Oh, let’s see.” She consulted her watch. “Since around eight, I suppose.” Her face fell. “Do you think you’ve been burgled? I didn’t see anything out of place.”

  “My dog. Have you seen him?” Moran began to search, calling Archie’s name and whistling. Something felt very wrong.

  The doorbell rang. Moran was there in seconds. It was Alison, his neighbour. She was holding a long lead, at the end of which a panting and straining Archie was doing his best to pull her into Moran’s hallway. She grinned.

  “Hi. I found Archie on my doorstep. We gave him something to eat – I suppose he got locked out?”

  Relief pumped through Moran’s veins. For a moment he’d thought the worst. “Thanks, Alison.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry it’s so late; I kept you up...”

  Alison shook her head. “We’re mostly nocturnal, Brendan. It’s not a problem. I did pop over earlier but there was no one around.” Her smile faded. “Is there any news on the–”

  “Not yet, Alison. We’re still looking into it.”

  “That poor woman.” Alison bit her lip. “I’m frightened to walk Max now.” She hesitated. “You will find the murderer, won’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ll keep you posted. You mustn’t worry.” He thanked her again and closed the door.

  “All OK?” Shona came into the hall, arms folded.

  “Yes. And no.” Moran let Archie off his lead and the spaniel bounded away into the lounge. “Why are you here, Shona?”

  Shona cocked her head to one side. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain.”

  Moran shook his head wearily. “This particular mountain is in no fit state to be conquered tonight. Look, Shona, I’ve been wanting to catch up, I really have, but I’m up to my neck in it at the moment.”

  “OK. No problem, I understand. How’s it all going?” She took his arm and led him back into the lounge. He belatedly noticed that a bottle of Sangiovese and two glasses had been placed on the table along with a fresh vase of flowers.

  “It’s going badly. Yes please.” Moran acknowledged the poised bottle and gratefully accepted the glass.

  “How badly? Talk to me.” She slipped onto the sofa beside him.

&n
bsp; “Usual badly. A lot of unanswered questions. It’s always like this.”

  “Like what, exactly? Go on, I want to know.”

  Moran leaned his head back on the sofa. “Like a huge, scattered jigsaw puzzle. You pick up one piece and try to make it fit. Sometimes it does, sometimes not. That reminds me.” He felt in his pocket and retrieved the physiotherapist’s card. “This is your line of work, isn’t it? Have you heard of this lot?”

  Shona leaned over so that he could smell her perfume. It made him feel slightly light-headed. She took the card and looked at it closely.

  “Nope. Don’t know them.”

  “Just a thought.”

  “Sorry.” Shona made a downcast face. “Keep talking. It’ll make it better. You’ll see.”

  So he did, and she was right – it did make it better. When she kissed him, that made it better too. After a while, nothing else mattered. They lay in each other’s arms.

  “Brendan?”

  “Mm?”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  She stirred and poked him in the ribs. “That is such a male response.”

  “Well, I’m a male. I’d hate to disappoint.”

  “Come on,” Shona cajoled. “Tell me all.”

  Moran wondered later how long it had been since he’d opened up so much to someone. It all poured out: his childhood, his father’s alcoholism, his brother’s accidental death, his engagement to Janice, the bomb...

  “And you were happy?” Shona asked when he had finished. “With Janice, I mean?”

  “Very,” he said. “We fitted, hand in glove. It was just like that. A rare thing.”

  “Yes.”

  They fell silent for a while, but presently Shona spoke again, rousing him from the edge of sleep.

  “Brendan?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Don’t you sometimes ache for the past? You know, for those days when everything was–”

  “Uncomplicated?” He mulled the question over. The youthful years, when Janice was still alive. When his heart was free.

  After a while he said, “I do, yes. But I can’t allow the yearning to get in the way of the here and now. If I did, it would drive me mad.”

  Shona snuggled closer. “That’s what I thought you’d say. You’re a survivor, like me.”

  “More sinner than survivor.”

  “Hmmm. Same, I suppose. I used to be such a good girl, too. I don’t suppose the church would have me back now.”

  “Does that bother you?” Moran mumbled sleepily.

  “Sometimes. When I’m feeling guilty.”

  Moran’s eyelids grew heavy. When he stirred much later to the gentle sound of the dawn chorus, she was gone.

  Later still, the phone was ringing, shrilly and insistently. Moran’s eyes opened slowly. The last thing he remembered was birdsong. Damn. He’d intended to get up no later than six. He reached for the phone.

  “Moran.”

  “Guv. It’s DI Pepper. I thought you’d want to know that we have a name for the Audi owner. It’s Ranandan, Ms Jaseena Ranandan. A physiotherapist and freelance chiropractor.

  “Ranandan? You’re sure? Do we have an address?”

  “Yes, guv. Up by the Uni.”

  “With you as soon as.”

  He brewed a quick coffee, grabbed a banana and left, locking the door carefully behind him.

  The house was unprepossessing, a typical Victorian semi in a well-to-do area of Reading near the University. Moran parked and turned to Charlie Pepper.

  “Nice and steady, Charlie. The last thing I want to do is get anyone rattled. Gently does it, and we’ll see what she has to say for herself.”

  “Right you are, guv.” Charlie unclipped her seatbelt and nodded briskly. Moran caught a brief glimpse of her shapely legs as she got out. Very attractive indeed. But then, so was Shona...

  As they walked up the drive Moran scolded himself. Concentrate on the job, Brendan. It was a tough call. Last night felt like a dream – a very pleasant one, for sure, but where it would lead was another story. No relationship was going to be straightforward given his history. He doubted whether he had it in him to even consider anything long-term. One step at a time, Brendan...

  “No shortage of money here, guv,” Charlie observed, taking in the size of the house and the two cars parked outside the double garage – the first a BMW, the second a sporty Mercedes.

  “Indeed not.” Moran rapped on the door knocker. “But no Audi.”

  The door was opened by a young Asian in his early thirties. Moran showed his ID.

  “Good morning. We’d like to speak to a Ms Jaseena Ranandan, if that’s possible?”

  A guarded look appeared on the man’s face. “My cousin. She’s not here.”

  “Where might we find her?” Moran asked in a reasonable tone.

  “She’s in India.”

  “I see. When is she expected back?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know. She might not come back.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  Another shrug. “She might stay in Mumbai. We have family there.”

  Moran tried another tack. “I understand she was practising as a physiotherapist?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Could you tell me where she practised?”

  “I don’t know. I never went there.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have the address? Of the practice?”

  “Wait.”

  The man disappeared. Charlie gave Moran a quizzical look. They heard voices from inside the house. The man reappeared.

  “No. We don’t know where it was.”

  Moran frowned. “How odd. Perhaps we need to have a longer chat. May we come in?” he made as if to step over the threshold.

  The man didn’t move, blocking the doorway. “We’re going out now. It’s not convenient.”

  “Well then, I wonder if you can tell me what your cousin did with her car when she left the country? Perhaps it’s garaged? Or maybe you’re looking after it for her?”

  “I don’t know anything about her car. It’s her business.”

  Charlie spoke up. “When did she go to India?”

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  “May we have the Mumbai address?” Charlie asked sweetly.

  The man’s face darkened. He disappeared again and returned with a slip of paper. “Here.”

  Moran took it. “I’d like to come back for a proper chat, Mr–?”

  “Kumar.”

  “First names?”

  “Atul.”

  “And when would be convenient?” Charlie asked.

  “Saturday, maybe.”

  Moran shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t do. We’re investigating a murder.”

  “A murder?” Now the face was animated. He took a step forward. “Has anything happened to Jas?”

  “You told us she was in India, Mr Kumar,” Charlie said. “With her family.”

  “Yeah, but, you know. We’re family. I like to keep tabs. What’s Jas got to do with all this?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to establish, Mr Kumar.” Moran said reasonably. “We just want to rule her out of the investigation.”

  “I’m in tonight.”

  “Good. Half past six, then.”

  The door closed.

  As they walked back to the car, Moran felt the first stirrings of optimism. Mr Kumar was hiding something, that was clear, but something told Moran that when they came knocking at half past six they’d find that their bird had flown.

  He voiced his thoughts. “Rob Phelps and I spoke to a girl called Zoë at The Zodiac club. She told us that the man DC Hill wanted to speak to went by the name of Rana, or Ranandan. Sound familiar?”

  “Jaseena’s surname.”

  “Right. I have to nip up to the hospital now, unfortunately. It’s a two-minute walk. I’d like you to stick around and wait for Mr �
�Kumar’ to go walkabout. It won’t be long. Keep tabs on him, and keep me informed. I’ll get Banner to pick me up from the RBH when I’m done.”

  “Will do, guv. Are you sure I can’t give you a lift?”

  Moran shook his head. “I might look like a geriatric, DI Pepper, but I’m not so decrepit that I can’t manage a two minute walk. Besides,” he added, “I wouldn’t want you to miss Mr Kumar’s exit.”

  Moran put his head around the door of the side ward and found that he’d picked the right one. Sergeant Phelps was propped on a tower of pillows, tubed and wired up to all manner of machines and monitors. His eyes were closed and his face was a pale, yellowish colour, an effect not enhanced by the sheen of sweat glistening on his cheeks and forehead. Phelps’ unshaven chin was blue with stubble. He looked awful. Moran took a breath and dug deep to find his cheerful hospital visitor alter ego.

  “Hello, Robert. I won’t ask how you’re feeling on the grounds that you might hit me.”

  Phelps opened his eyes and managed a weak grin. “I couldn’t hit a bloody paper bag at the moment,” he said. “You’re safe to abuse at will, guv.”

  Moran found a chair and pulled it alongside the bed. “Very inconvenient time to go sick, Sergeant.” His tongue was firmly in his cheek. “But I have to say that your stand-in is rather attractive, so it’s not all bad.”

  Phelps grunted. “Silver linings abound, guv. Everyone’s entitled to one now and again.”

  “I’ll make the most of it, then,” Moran chuckled.

  “Do that. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Moran shook his head. “You’re not coming anywhere near work until you’re one hundred per cent. And that’s going to take a while.”

  “You sound like my doctor.”

  “Well, it makes a change from you going on at me all the time. Allow me my revenge.”

  Phelps laughed and finished with a bout of coughing. A nurse breezed in, collected several items from the table and went out. Phelps rolled his eyes.

  “No peace in here. Day and night, it never stops. Tablet here, injection there. I feel like a sodding pincushion.”

  “You’ll be home soon enough,” Moran sympathised. If Phelps hated hospitals half as much as he did, he’d have to be a very unhappy bunny indeed. “Family been in?”