Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

McLusky went through a series of helpless facial expressions that signalled, ‘Yes, you’re right, but I’m not saying anything.’

‘And the bomb was much, much smaller. Was it the same type of explosive?’

‘There’s no word yet. But what did the most damage to the victim was the tongue of flame that shot from the device. It set her face on fire.’

‘That might not have been the intention. It might just not have worked properly.’

‘That’s always possible.’ This was like still being at work, only with the addition of beer and beauty.

They both reached for their glasses and drank. ‘What are you suddenly smiling about, inspector?’

‘Well, doctor, I was thinking that this is a most peculiar topic of conversation for a date.’

Rennie sat back in her chair. ‘A date? Is that what this is?’

‘Well, no, I didn’t mean …’

‘It was meant to be a visit to the theatre, which has now turned into a drink, or in your case, three drinks.’

Why had he said that? He didn’t even like the word ‘date’. Nobody ‘dated’ in Britain. McLusky searched her face for signs of annoyance but found instead what he hoped was an ironic sternness. She wasn’t wearing her glasses but peered at him over their rims anyway.

‘Sorry, it’s not really what I meant. I was just wondering if any of the other couples at their tables are talking about bombs and mutilation.’

‘The other couples? You can obviously see us as a couple, then?’

‘Jesus, one has to choose one’s words carefully around you.’

‘I’m a pedant, inspector. Take no notice.’

McLusky knew that ‘take no notice’ without exception meant ‘please note’. A change of subject might help. ‘So, how’s the play? Rubbish, you said? Thanks for the invitation, by the way. That was quite unexpected.’ She waved it away. ‘I had a spare ticket.’

‘And you asked everyone else but no one could make it?’

‘Well, no, it wasn’t quite like that. I just thought you’re new in town, probably don’t know many people yet …’

‘That was kind of you. I’m afraid I came straight from work, I’m not dressed for the occasion.’

‘Neither am I, really. The Tobacco Factory isn’t that kind of theatre, you wear whatever you feel like.’

Rennie wore a simple grey knee-length dress, matching shoes and handbag. It reminded him of the sixties. No jewellery apart from pearl ear studs, yet she looked fit for the catwalk. Her eyes weren’t like Laura’s at all, he decided. ‘So, are you going to bring me up to speed about the play?’

‘Oh, stuff the play, you’ll never get into it now and I’m not fussed about it. I thought we could go and eat something.’

‘There’s a bistro here, I saw.’

‘It’s a bit too studenty here for me. I didn’t book anywhere but I know one or two places where we might get a table.’

He tried not to let his relief show. ‘Okay, if you’re sure about the play. I’m quite hungry, now you mention it.’

‘So am I. We’ll finish our drinks and go.’

‘Good. So the interrogation starts here. Have you always lived here?’

‘Me? God no …’

The conversation flowed easily, mainly because Rennie talked freely and happily about herself. She gave him her potted autobiography from her peripatetic childhood when the family followed her father from failed venture to failed venture, her travels, her eventual studies at Liverpool and her subsequent teaching posts. They both had a stint in Southampton in common, she teaching chemistry, he on the force.

As they left the Factory they found the rain had stopped. McLusky offered Rennie a cigarette.

‘No thanks, I’m a chemist, I know what’s in it. But you go ahead.’

He lit one for himself with a shiny silver lighter he found in a pocket of his leather jacket and didn’t remember owning. It was satisfyingly heavy. They were walking towards Rennie’s blue Toyota when his mobile rang. In a city full of strangers this could only mean bad news.

It was DS Austin. ‘At last. Your airwave isn’t turned on or something and your mobile was saying you were unavailable.’

McLusky’s mental image of his airwave radio lying at home next to the cooker made him swallow hard. ‘No signal, I guess.’

‘Your predictions are coming true. Another bomb, by the looks of it. The victim is male. Blew up inside his car.’

‘Is the victim alive?’ McLusky made an apologetic gesture to Rennie who shrugged her shoulders.

‘He was still alive when the paramedics got there but he died at the scene. It’s in Knowle West.’ Austin gave the address.

‘Hang on a second.’ He fumbled about in his pockets.

Rennie had anticipated it and handed him a folded envelope from her handbag. She watched him note down the address with a heavy, brushed-steel pen. The man had a certain style, she had noticed it before, no plastic biros or disposable lighters for him. He looked good in a leather jacket, too. The inspector probably drove a good car and owned solid, quality furniture, he seemed that kind of a man.

McLusky folded his mobile. ‘Something’s come up. I’m afraid I have to go and find a cab somewhere. I came without my car.’

‘I’ll drive you there, much quicker.’ She released the central locking then went to the back of the car and squatted down low, inspecting the tail pipe.

‘What on earth are you doing? You’re not looking for bombs, are you?’

Rennie straightened up. ‘No. Just making sure it’s clear. It’s the latest craze, it seems, blocking the exhaust pipes of cars. It was my turn a couple of days ago. Car wouldn’t start and I ended up having it towed to a garage. It took them half a day to find a rotten apple in the exhaust pipe.’

As Rennie drove off McLusky spotted a man standing alone beside the entrance of the building, watching. ‘Isn’t that …?’ Rennie drove off fast and he lost sight of the figure.

‘Isn’t that what?’

‘The … the bloke. The chap who was at the laboratory when I came up to ask your advice. I thought I just saw him by the theatre.’

‘What, Harmer? Most unlikely. I don’t think Steven even knows what goes on inside a theatre.’

‘What is he, your assistant?’

‘Yes, well, not just mine. He’s a lab technician. Am I driving you to the scene of a murder?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Another bomb? You might as well tell me, it’ll be in the paper tomorrow, save me the expense.’

‘I was going to. Yes, another explosion. That’s all I know, really. A man died.’

‘That then rather looks like a bombing campaign, doesn’t it?’

‘If it turns out to be our man again, yes.’

‘But what’s he campaigning for?’

‘That’s a good question.’

‘You haven’t received any demands, then, something else you can’t tell me?’

‘No, nothing at all.’

Rennie was driving them south, confident of where she was going, hardly referring to her sat nav. To him all this looked new, alien, yet somehow universal. A cityscape of suburbs, becoming poorer and more depressing the further they went. Even in sunshine, without sodium-lit rain, this place would look drab and dispiriting. Here and there a building site hinted at recovery, yet mainly what they drove past were drab streets full of cars that looked dumped rather than parked; a boarded-up house, a playground full of rubbish, a van without wheels.

Knowle West. McLusky recognized it instantly, though he had never been here. It was Costcutter Country, and markedly different from the other Bristol west of the river. Here problem neighbourhoods, high unemployment, failing estates and failing schools had created a ripe market for hard drugs and the crime they spawned. Gangs of children, often led by young adults, defended their imagined turf and were responsible for an impressive percentage of the crime, knifings and shootings in the city.