Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

Rents here were lower, yet even hard-up students shunned the area, not being keen on too much reality all at once. Besides, it was too far from the university, from the clubs and the gigs. Even pubs were failing here as more and more people stayed in to drink supermarket booze and watch TV in the imaginary safety of their homes.

Judging by the number of drinkers standing outside its doors the George and Dragon was bucking the trend. The area around Frank Dudden’s car had been completely sealed off and the road junction was closed. Despite the persistent drizzle many of the neighbourhood’s residents had deserted the fantasy world of television and computer games for the arc-lit reality of death on their own streets and formed a noisy cordon beyond the police tape. Many had brought drinks, bicycles, babies and camcorders. Pictures and videos were being taken on mobile phones.

On the other side of the tape police cars, Forensics vehicles, ambulance, undertaker’s van, technicians’ cars and Denkhaus’s Land Rover were already there. Everyone had crammed their vehicles across the junction and on to a triangle of grass which they soon realized was the neighbourhood’s dog toilet, the pub’s vomit bucket and a used-needle repository.

‘Looks like you’re the last to arrive, inspector.’ There hadn’t even been time to move to first names.

‘Looks like it, doctor.’

‘So this is what policemen’s wives can expect, is it?’ She checked her watch. ‘Forty-seven minutes, not much of a night out.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s not always like this, honestly. Thanks for the lift. Perhaps we could …’

‘Yes, inspector. Next time I have fifty minutes to fill I might call on you again.’

‘I look forward to it.’

But don’t hold your breath. ‘Good luck, inspector.’

Watching her drive off McLusky was assailed by a sudden feeling of loss that cut him raw across his chest. He ducked under the police tape and stood in the shadows between the police vans and lit another cigarette. This is what policemen’s wives can expect. He took a deep drag on his cigarette then walked coughing towards the arc lights at the street corner. It was all policemen’s wives’ husbands could expect.

DS Austin had spotted him and lifted a finger in greeting but McLusky steered a course towards Superintendent Denkhaus who was talking with a sharp-suited man standing close to a metal briefcase and holding aloft a black umbrella. The two were shaking hands as he got there. ‘Ah, glad you could join us at last. You might try keeping your airwave turned on if you want to head this investigation.’ He turned to the umbrella’d man. ‘This is DI McLusky, new to our troubled parish. Dr Coulthart, Home Office Pathologist.’

Coulthart was in his late fifties, wore rimless spectacles and had a suspiciously full head of dark hair. He seemed to look through McLusky. No offer to shake hands was forthcoming. Instead the pathologist gave a curt nod. ‘Inspector.’ He picked up his briefcase and turned away. ‘Good luck, Rob. I think you’ll need it.’

Denkhaus grunted at his retreating shape. Coulthart had taken his umbrella with him, leaving the superintendent standing in the incessant drizzle. He had come without his hat and was bristling with discomfort and irritation. If DCI Gaunt hadn’t been in Spain trying to assist in the arrest of that bastard DI Pearce, he wouldn’t now be standing in the sodding rain. Again. He gripped McLusky’s shoulder hard. ‘It was only a matter of time before someone got killed. This shit always escalates, by accident or design. This one may have got killed by accident but we can’t count on it.’ He released him and jerked his head towards the wreck of the car at the street corner. A large enough tent had at last been found and crime scene technicians were erecting it around the vehicle. ‘You go get a good eyeful, I’ve seen enough. It’s all yours, detective inspector.’

McLusky stood in the rain and gave the scene time to sink in. Glass and bits of fittings from the car were lying in a wide orbit. Technicians and Forensics were busy all around the area, closely watched by the press and neighbourhood. TV had arrived and bribed their way into the upstairs bedrooms of nearby houses to get a better view. Austin was talking to one of the white-suited technicians, himself still wearing overshoes and latex gloves. Uniform were everywhere.

The four doors of the victim’s car were wide open now. Having donned protective gear himself McLusky approached it from the driver’s side. Everything he saw was dark red, thoroughly sprayed with blood from the explosive dismemberment of the victim. The car’s interior felt like the inside of a giant mouth with broken teeth and a half-chewed man on its tongue. Paramedics had got some dressings on to the victim in a vain effort to stop the bleeding and had managed to get a drip into his arm before he died. The dressings were so soaked in blood it was difficult to tell them apart from the charred clothes and the stained upholstery. The smells were of blood, faeces, urine and burnt flesh mingled with the aroma of spent gunpowder. The rain drummed harder on the polypropylene sky above. He looked closely at the dead man’s grey face, smeared with his blood. The eyes were closed, the mouth wide open, showing much dental work. He knew little could be gained by this. There wasn’t much he could glean from this carnage that the finely detailed reports he would soon receive couldn’t tell him. Yet something compelled him to absorb fully the aftermath of what had occurred here. Somehow he felt more of an obligation to engage with this filthy corpse of an out-of-shape middle-aged man than he had felt towards the survivors of the first two blasts. He owed this man more than the others.

Austin had appeared behind him. He had taken one look at the carnage and since then studiously avoided the corpse. He felt guilty now, seeing what time the inspector took. But as far as he could tell, what had happened here was quite obvious.

Paramedics had crawled all over the front and back of the car, their uniforms more red than green when they finally gave up, no doubt giving Forensics a headache. They had found the shredded remains of a can of lager that had contained the device. The smell was gross. What was Liam studying so closely? ‘Booby-trapped beer can. Found anything else?’

McLusky broke off his vigil. Failure is what he had seen. The picture of the dead man had imprinted itself on his retina. Perhaps they should allow the press in, allow the TV cameras close and make them transmit this on the news in fine detail. Could the bomber really have wanted this? Would the bomber look at this and think he had done well ? Would he be shocked? Or was he too weird, too far gone to care? Perhaps it was a stupid question. People had been blowing each other up quite happily ever since explosives were invented. ‘Has Denkhaus named a crime scene coordinator?’

‘Yeah, me.’

‘Right. No, I didn’t see anything special. Just brewing up a good head of resentment. So, tell me about it.’

‘Victim is a Frank Dudden, a small trader at St Nick’s Market, sells T-shirts with your own designs printed on them, that kind of thing. Got thrown out of the pub because he could hardly stand up straight. We have an eyewitness for what happened next. The old boy who lives in … number fourteen, across there.’ He indicated the little grey house across the street where every window was lit up. ‘A Mr Belling. He keeps a diary of all the nuisance in his street so he can complain to the council about it. He heard shouting and came to the window. Saw the whole thing. ‘

‘Right, let’s talk to him.’

‘He’s already given us a statement. He saw the can of — ’