Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

Addressing the troops was nothing new, but getting new troops on your side was important for anyone hoping to lead an investigation. Any roomful of detectives contained a selection of bright, intelligent sparklers, competitive climbers, dullards treading water, skivers, sharp operators and sometimes downright villainous specimens of police-hood. You couldn’t afford to take your time over finding out who was who, that would come later. You had to size them up as you would a roomful of drunks where you were expected to restore order. Who were the troublemakers, who could be an ally, who would slink away, and who might stab you in the back?

‘But we were told the two devices were quite different.’ DI Kat Fairfield was holding her biro like a dagger, jabbing it against her notebook for emphasis. ‘The first could still have been by a different perpetrator. Could still have been an act of vandalism, in fact. While this one was personal. Aimed at one specific person, Maxine Bendix.’

‘Bendick. It could be. It could be a copycat thing, someone suddenly getting a taste for blowing up people. It could be coincidence even, but I don’t believe that. No. Making these devices takes time, getting the ingredients for the bombs together, that alone takes a lot of time.’ Every shop in the area that had sold fireworks over the past twelve months was being contacted, staff and owners quizzed about large amounts of fireworks being purchased. That too took a lot of time, a lot of man-hours. ‘Of course we can never rule out anything until we have bagged our man.’

‘Do we know it’s a man, sir?’

French? DC Claire French, was it? He was good with names but the DC had a face so plain it bordered on the expressionless and he only vaguely remembered seeing her before. She took plain clothes to an extreme, too, and would disappear into any shopping centre crowd without leaving a trace on the retina. A good trait in a detective. ‘No, you’re right, we don’t know that at all, nor do we know that we are dealing with a single perpetrator. We can make the thing as complicated as we like, really. We could have two separate perpetrators or one, a single bomb maker or a group, an original bomber and a copycat bomber.’ Some nodded in assent, let’s keep it simple by all means.

A sudden thought struck him and a dark vista of horrors opened up before him. He was about to throw this into the ring, then decided to keep his suspicions to himself. Concentrate their minds on what we’ve got. ‘There has been no communication from the bomber, no declaration, no demands. In the absence of that we’ll need to look at the victims for a motive.’

A hand was raised with pointed index finger in school-boy irony. DS Sorbie. ‘What if the attacks are motiveless?’

‘Have you ever come across a motiveless crime?’

‘Loads.’

‘I doubt that. Unprovoked, yes, senseless, certainly, motiveless, never. Since we know little or nothing about the suspect we might find a lead in who the victims are. At the moment it’s all we’ve got, though I admit I’m a bit baffled. We have three victims so far. One, a boy returning home from an interview at the parks department. He makes an unlikely target. Perhaps for a bomb built by his old school mates but that’s a little outlandish for me. Elizabeth Howe, recently-made-redundant postmistress. It is hard to imagine a less likely target for a bomb attack. Surely something involving brown paper and string would be more appropriate. Which leaves Maxine Bendick. What do we know about her? Who wants to harm her?’

DS Sorbie looked contemptuous. ‘She works for the council — spoiled for choice, I should think.’

‘What department, was it housing?’

‘Yes, mainly, but she also did stints in other departments, processing forms, sorting out queries. Half the people who come in there must feel pretty murderous about backlogs, delays and such, waiting lists, council tax, fines etc.’

‘Good point, Sorbie. Find out if anyone has made any threats, are there any particular disputes between the council and a member of the public where Bendick was the one dealing with them, either directly or by letter where she could be identified.’

‘Sir, we … DI Fairfield and I, are supposed to get urgent results on the Mobile Muggers as well.’ It simply wasn’t fair on them and if Kat wasn’t going to speak up then he would. ‘The super is leaning on us to get a result re the muggings and make arrests, yet now we’re supposed to work on the bombings as well. There’s also been a spate of burglaries all along the …’

DI Fairfield shot Sorbie a look and his complaint fizzled out. The last thing she needed was for McLusky to get the impression she couldn’t cope with her workload.

‘I’m aware of the pressures on you. I’m leaning on you, the super leans on all of us, so go lean on some other poor sod.’

DI Fairfield’s biro was poised over the paper. ‘This second device. Was it designed to kill?’

‘No, too small, by all accounts and a different kind of explosion apparently.’ He watched Fairfield scribble it all down without even looking at her notebook. McLusky was impressed. He had tried writing without looking once and produced an undecipherable mess.

He doled out more tasks to the troops then let them loose. It felt like firing shots into the dark with a weapon he hadn’t loaded himself. He might be firing blanks. Which reminded him. He turned to Austin. ‘Where’s Dearlove?’

DC Dearlove had managed to hide throughout the briefing, even in this cramped room, behind the broad back of DS Sorbie. Austin spotted him and called across the noise of the meeting breaking up. ‘Hey, Deedee, can we borrow your brain for a minute?’

Dearlove stood up. ‘Yeah, okay, what for?’

‘We’re trying to build an idiot.’

‘Funny, Jane.’ Then he felt himself skewered by McLusky’s unnerving green eyes and was compelled to walk over after all.

McLusky wondered how the gawky youth with a suit full of static had made it into the police force. Would there really be a Detective Inspector Dearlove one day? ‘Bendick has round-the-clock protection? When can I see her?’

‘I left a note on your desk, sir.’

‘I’m not a great note reader, Deedee. Find me, talk to me, call my mobile, send a pigeon. Don’t leave bits of paper lying around expecting people to have read them, you get into trouble that way. Always make sure information is passed on properly and you know it’s been received.’

‘Okay, sir. Is that all, sir?’

‘No, Deedee, it isn’t all. What did you write in your damn note?’

‘Oh, sure, it’s all done, there’ll be a bod outside her room, 24/7. There was no word from Southmead on when she can be interviewed. They were operating when I asked. They’ll let us know.’

‘They never do. Keep asking, okay?’ He turned to Austin. ‘If this was a murder inquiry what would you be doing right now, Jane?’ Austin opened his mouth but McLusky was already walking away. ‘I’m going to watch a video.’

In his office he found notes, performance targets, preliminary reports, memos and other things he hated with a passion. But no CCTV footage. Of course he hated CCTV footage too. What you saw there was already over, could no longer be prevented. CCTV showed you crimes that should never have happened, accidents that could have been avoided, people who by now had disappeared and victims already dead. He hated everything about it. Yet it was sometimes useful and it often secured convictions.

He phoned the desk. The footage from the gym and surrounding area should have arrived by now. There was no answer. He let it ring for a while then left his office and clattered downstairs.

It was the public who really liked CCTV. They couldn’t get enough of it. They liked being watched, it made them feel safe. To like being under surveillance you had to have a childish faith in the benevolence of those who were watching you, a faith McLusky didn’t share. All this stuff looked good practice now but nothing lasted forever, not even democracy.