Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

McLusky ignored the press and walked on. ‘You’ve got some of the questions right there.’ At least they seemed to have stopped pushing the Al Qaeda angle. Denkhaus had devoted his press conference to stamping out the rumours of terrorism. The city had a sizable Muslim community and everyone was aware of the racial tensions already at work.

McLusky spoke to the nearest uniform. It was Constable Hanham. ‘Couldn’t you have cordoned off the area beyond the vehicles? Press and public are swarming all over the place.’

Hanham was in defiant mood. ‘Yes sir, only we ran out of tape and we don’t have enough bodies to keep them further back.’

He surveyed the straggly line of police tape strung from a car to a drainpipe to another car. ‘Then close off the entire street, that’ll only take half the tape, and string what’s left across the road up there. Move them right back.’

‘Sir, there’s people wanting to get to their cars they parked further up.’

‘Well, they’ll have to walk round then. Do them good.’ Naturally McLusky himself avoided any kind of exercise on the grounds that police work was enough foot slog to begin with. He walked on with Austin beside him. ‘But there are plenty of other questions. Like how the hell did she end up with an exploding powder compact, for one. And who wants to blow her to kingdom come would be good to know too. If this area is covered by CCTV then we’ll examine the footage of course.’

‘There’s CCTV in the foyer and the gym but obviously none in the dressing rooms.’

‘Right. It’ll all be a complete waste of time since she could have had the compact for ages, but it’s got to be done. I’ll even look at it myself, don’t worry.’ A pale-faced young DC, who he had earlier seen taking statements in the lobby, came out of the front door of the gym. ‘Who’s that walking question mark?’

‘That’s DC Dearlove.’

‘Good lord.’

Austin wasn’t sure if the inspector was referring to Daniel Dearlove’s name or looks. Dearlove had bad posture and mousy hair so thin and clogged with hair gel that his pink scalp showed through everywhere. His wispy moustache clung to a narrow pink lip. He looked like a kid dressed up by his mum in a hand-me-down suit.

‘Call him over, will you?’

‘Hey, Deedee.’

Dearlove looked up from his notebook, changed direction but continued reading as he walked. His lips were moving.

‘By the way, Deedee’s polyester suits generate enough static electricity to charge your mobile with.’

‘Genius.’

Dearlove looked up from his notebook only when he had come to a halt in front of Austin. ‘Jane? Inspector?’

McLusky saw Dearlove’s fingers were stained with ink from a leaky biro. ‘Did you get anything of interest?’

‘Ehm, not really. The trainer said she’d never seen the victim use a powder compact, in fact she didn’t think she normally used make-up at all.’

‘She might have used the compact just for the mirror. Okay. Where was the victim taken? Royal Infirmary?’

‘No, Southmead Hospital. Burns Unit.’

‘Right. Get someone down there straight away, I want a constable outside her room round the clock. Work out a rota and see it’s adhered to. Then contact Southmead Burns Unit and tell them I want to interview Maxine Bendick at the first possible. Get both organized and get back to me.’

‘Okay, sir.’ Dearlove sighed. His shift should have finished hours ago. There was a film on TV he’d wanted to watch starting this minute and he hadn’t thought of setting the recorder. Once you joined the police force you had to record the rest of your life, just in case you weren’t there to see it. And as usual there wasn’t enough left in the budget to pay overtime, even before flashy bastards like McLusky wrote off brand new cars.

‘Right.’ McLusky had already forgotten Dearlove. ‘Let’s get everything collated and see if any of it makes sense when looked at together.’

‘Okay. We have lift-off …’ Jane walked briskly away towards his little car.

McLusky cast a weary eye over the scene. The press hung about patiently or perhaps were just resigned to boredom, hoping for developments, statements, things to photograph. Someone had found more tape by the looks of it, constables were busy fluttering the stuff in more sensible places, ordering people beyond the line. Tourists were getting extra entertainment and were making the most of the pause in the rain. Shoppers with carrier bags walked slowly by. Strangers talked to strangers.

He spotted the superintendent heaving himself out of his spotless car at the street corner and his stomach responded with a protesting growl. Danish pastry for breakfast was okay but you got hungry again after five minutes. He walked off in the opposite direction and ducked under the tape. It was the wrong colour. It also read Caution, Electric Cables Below . Someone had shown initiative.

Doubling back towards Park Street, putting distance between himself and his superior, he felt like he had when skiving from school, something he had done a lot of. But he felt no guilt. He couldn’t think too long on an empty stomach without becoming short-tempered, even absent-minded. He hoped this wouldn’t mean he’d end up in the same shape as the super, who clearly liked his food and, according to Jane, his beer.

He stopped briefly to look back towards Brandon Hill and the bomb site, now completely cleared. All that remained was the blackened concrete base on which the shelter had stood. The council had already announced that it would be rebuilt. He wondered morosely if any such announcements would be made about Maxine Bendick’s face.

Near the museum he had adopted a bistro that served tapas, a drinkable cappuccino and wine by the glass. A few tables stood empty on the uneven pavement, waiting for the arrival of spring. The waitress smiled in recognition as she handed him the menu. Would she still smile at him if she knew that he was a police officer? He ordered bread, olives, a dish with spicy sausages and something that looked like overcooked ratatouille but tasted fine. The food here, although Spanish, reminded him of Greece but was conveyed to his table with un-Mediterranean haste.

If murder and mayhem spoilt your appetite then the police force was clearly not for you. McLusky enjoyed every morsel of his food and his glass of red precisely because he had a bad feeling about these explosions. Over the past few days he had completely convinced himself that he was dealing with a one-off, whatever the target had been, whatever the motive. The second explosion changed everything. And the super had put him in charge. He raised his eyes from his empty plates and found the waitress looking at him from behind the high bar. He nodded at her, intending to ask for his bill, but when she arrived at the table found himself ordering more wine instead.

The second bomb had nothing prankish about it. It was a deeply malicious thing. This could not be misconstrued as someone wanting to create a bang. Someone had wanted to hurt Maxine Bendick. Someone had gone to considerable lengths to hurt Maxine Bendick, constructed the device, concealed it inside her compact. It took a particular kind of person to imagine the injuries the device would cause and still persist in building it, planting it. It took an extraordinary depth of feeling, like hate or the desire for revenge, on the one hand, and a complete lack of empathy on the other. The person behind this was not lashing out, here was forethought and planning. Malice aforethought. McLusky drained his glass. Two could play that game.

‘What I was afraid of most has happened, then, a second device has been detonated. I had hoped we were looking at a one-off, a badly judged prank, but I was wrong.’ McLusky was glad about the two glasses of wine he had had. The incident room that had been set up at Albany Road in record time was tiny and crowded with tables, computers and personnel. He had perched himself on a folding table to appear casual as he talked to the assembled crew, only to find that the table was so rickety he felt it might collapse under him. Yet he stayed where he was. To compensate he lit a cigarette. Sod the no-smoking rules. He would stop smoking at work when people stopped killing, robbing and mutilating each other. This time nobody objected. Just a short while later one or two other cigarettes were furtively lit elsewhere in the room.