Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

‘Someone call an ambulance.’ Someone was screaming it into the darkness. Or perhaps she was just thinking it. ‘Someone call a fucking ambulance!’

Then there was nothing, just the hammering rhythm of blood in the dark.

The constable in the viz jacket bravely stepped in front of his car, signalling him to stop. McLusky wound the handle and the window dropped in a series of jerks.

‘You can’t come through here, you need to — ’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He cut him off by showing his warrant card.

The PC stepped back a little in order to fully admire the state of the ancient Polo and tilted his head so he could read the inscription on the bonnet. Could the ID be a fake?

‘Never mind the car, it’s the hard-boiled eggs that are getting me down.’ He left him standing there, one constable who was sure to recognize him in future.

The dreaded thing had happened. Not only had the bomber struck again but only a few hundred yards from the first explosion. There was a message in that he didn’t want to hear. It was a message about who owned the place. At the moment it sure as hell wasn’t him.

The corner of Park Street and Great George Street was busy. The ambulance had already left but the rest of the circus was there. The private little gym had been evacuated and some of its members hung about outside to watch the police machine at work. The entire area was being searched for more devices. He was directed down a corridor past an empty cafeteria. Lanky Constable Pym was standing guard outside the ladies’ changing room further along. On one of the benches in the corridor a female officer was comforting a young woman in a dressing gown. Two more young women stood nearby, looking pale.

All McLusky had to do was follow the voices, the police voices, so different from those of civilians — purposeful, using the vocabulary of incident, procedure, of cover-your-back and make-doubly-sure. In the dressing room he found Austin giving instructions to a young police photographer. ‘Get shots of every particle of the exploded device in situ , get the CSI techies to show you where they all are. Hello, inspector, they managed to find you then?’

‘My mobile needs charging.’ He didn’t mention that he had forgotten to turn on his personal radio until he left the university. He sniffed the air. This place smelled of calamity, of singed hair, roasted flesh, burnt fingernails, gunpowder and sweat, the sweat of fear mingling with that of work and concentration. Blood-spurts covered lockers and benches. There was a pool of vomit on the floor. ‘Tell me what happened, Jane.’

Austin talked fluently about the facts so far established. ‘The victim is a Maxine Bendick. Late twenties. She comes here for fitness training in her lunch break, works with a personal trainer, Patricia Maine, who’s out in the lobby right now giving a statement, but she wasn’t in this room when it happened. She was already talking to her next client. There were four women using the changing room when it happened. According to one girl — ’ he consulted his notebook — ‘a Tamara Tasker, Bendick had changed back into street clothes and was about to leave but stopped and took out a gold powder compact which appeared to blow up in her hand.’

‘Marvellous.’

‘One of her fingers …’ Austin pointed at an open locker containing blood-spattered clothes.

‘Thumb.’ A white-suited technician furnished them with the detail without looking up from his task of scraping something unsavoury off the wall next to the locker. ‘Left hand.’

Austin continued. ‘There you have it. Left thumb. Landed in there.’

McLusky took a good look. It looked like pain, a great deal of pain. ‘Other injuries?’

‘Her face. Apparently her face is badly burnt. The same witness said her face was actually on fire. Yes. Extensive burns to her face and hands.’

‘But she’ll live?’

‘I think so, the injuries aren’t life-threatening per se, unless she dies of shock, of course. Ambulance got here quite quickly for once. Did you know our ambulance service is on the bottom of the league tab — ’

‘Spare me statistics and league tables, Jane, wherever possible.’

One of the CSI technicians piped up. ‘You’re not a football supporter then, inspector? Nor a betting man.’

‘Got it in one.’ It was almost obligatory in the force to like football. He had even tried supporting Southampton for a while just to fit in, but had found it mind-numbing. It seemed a long time ago now when he had still tried to fit in.

The girl would live. But would she want to live once she saw what was left of her face? ‘So. Someone fills her powder compact with Semtex? What’s going on here, d’you think?’

‘Search me.’

‘Where’s the rest of her stuff?’

‘Her bag is over here.’

The pink and white sports bag was sitting on a bench by the door. Austin talked to the nearest technician. ‘You finished with it?’

‘We haven’t touched it. If you must open it wear gloves.’

McLusky wriggled his fingers at him, already clad in latex.

‘All right, then. But it could also be booby-trapped of course.’

‘Rubbish. The compact blew up after she had changed so she’ll have packed this herself. But by all means stand well back, everyone.’ A spray pattern of blood adorned the top and left side of the bag. Tight whorls of ashen residue looked like the worm-shaped remains of charred hair. McLusky unzipped the bag in one quick movement and rummaged about. Apart from towel and leotard he found a grey Tupperware box. He noticed his DS instinctively lean back as he prised off the lid. The box contained a home-made sandwich, cut into two chunky rectangles. McLusky approved. ‘No revelations here.’ He closed the Tupperware box. The aroma of cheese and tomato faded, filling him with regret.

Austin continued his report. ‘She was on her lunch break. According to her coach she works for the council at a so-called access point in Hotwells. Inquiries, advice, that sort of thing.’

McLusky recognized the senior CSI man with the blond moustache from the first bomb site and approached him. ‘Do you feel like saying something rash, like whether the two explosions are in any way connected?’

The man’s moustache twitched. ‘Impossible to say, inspector. At this stage. But the sizes of the explosions are very different. This was a very compact design, so to speak.’ There were groans from his colleagues. ‘This was made to hurt a single person. Almost certainly victim-activated.’

‘Victim-activ …’ The language of these people. ‘You mean it was meant to go off when someone handled it?’

‘Precisely. The other bomb had a timer. This one could have sat unexploded for years. Until someone opened it, probably, or shook it. Hard to say at the moment. Forensics might be able to tell us more.’

He thanked the man. By now his stomach was rumbling audibly, a result not of revulsion at the awful smell in the room but of hunger, victim-activated by sniffing Maxine Bendick’s uneaten sandwich. He gave Austin a push on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Statements were still being taken in the foyer. They walked straight past and stepped outside. The usual crowd of onlookers had gathered beyond the police tape, including the press who started firing cameras and questions at them as soon as they walked up Great George Street where the police units were parked.

‘Inspector, is the victim still alive?’

‘Are the two incidents connected?’

‘Is it the work of the same bomber?’

‘What’s the motive behind the bombings?’

‘Was there any warning?’

‘Is this part of a campaign?’

‘Have you made any progress on the first bomb?’