Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

McLusky sadly shook his head. ‘Not a snowball’s. Oh, you can try sending in a sample, only by the time it comes back from Chepstow the internal combustion engine will be a distant memory. You’d have a better chance with a poster saying Have You Seen This Mud? ’

‘That bad, is it?’

‘Even if you’re investigating murder.’ Unless … Perhaps mud was the answer. Perhaps mud was just what he needed. ‘Tell you what, though. I do know a chemist at the uni who might take a look at it. I can’t promise anything, of course.’ He gave a prolonged shrug. ‘But it might be worth a try.’ It might be a good excuse to see Dr Louise Rennie again.

Now the officer had visibly brightened up. It wasn’t every day a CID officer took an interest when he didn’t have to. ‘Really? That’s very … that would be good, yes. Where …?’

‘I’m working out of Albany Road. Send the sample direct to me, McLusky.’

As he walked on he spotted one of the offensive leaflets on the pavement and picked it up. Disable a car today . It had a clean logic to it. Stop the car and you stop the pollution. As he climbed back up the streets towards Albany Road he got a good view of part of the city centre around the cathedral, the council offices and the enormous Marriott Royal Hotel, the streets all around solid with cars. It looked like madness. All these people surrounded by painted metal, going nowhere.

One man’s misfortune, of course, was another man’s opportunity. Shoplifting and other petty crime had risen dramatically on Saturdays because the thieves knew police cars were practically grounded during the protests. Foot patrols had been stepped up. Bicycles had been issued to several fit constables to respond in a traditional, low-tech way. They were a hit with the public and had produced some arrests as well as sprained wrists and ankles and in one case concussion.

If only he could take a good look at his own case from a great height too, perhaps he’d be able to see what kind of madness lurked in there. He turned into the still-stagnant one-way street with the intention of trying the cappuccino at Carlotta’s, perhaps get a bite to eat too. For some reason he had felt perpetually hungry ever since coming to this town. When he got there he was drawn further along by the french-fry-and-ale aroma emanating from the Neptune Inn a few doors along.

The interior design leant heavily on the pub’s name, with tridents, bladder wrack seaweed and fishing nets on the ceiling. The blackboard menu included several fish dishes to keep up the theme and he ordered the simplest-sounding one, with an extra portion of chips and a pint of Guinness. The food arrived by the time he had half-drained his pint. When his mobile chimed with the sober factory-setting ring tone he recognized the caller as DS Austin. A premonition made him stuff his mouth with chips before he answered it. ‘Mn-nn?’

‘Liam, it’s Jane. Where are you?’

McLusky swallowed. ‘Lunch.’ He broke up some of the fish with his fork. ‘Where’s the fire?’ He quickly shovelled as much fish, chips and peas into his mouth as was feasible. From across the pub the barmaid eyed him with disgust: that man in the leather jacket ate like a pig while talking on the phone.

‘You’ll be lunch if the super is to be believed. And the fire will be under your posterior if you don’t get it over here quickly.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Can’t talk, just get here.’

‘On my way.’ He pocketed the mobile and looked at his barely touched food. Five minutes wouldn’t make any difference, would it? Perhaps it would, Austin had sounded worried. One more mouthful and he was on his way. He couldn’t even use the traffic as an excuse, the Polo had been sitting in plain view in the station car park all the while.

At Albany Road he caught the atmosphere at once. Everyone in the incident room tried to look heads-down busy. He was hoping Jane would fill him in but all DS Austin managed was to wave a newspaper from across the incident room before Denkhaus darkened the door and growled, ‘McLusky, my office, now.’ As the super turned away Austin held up the early edition of the Post so he could read the headline: PSYCHOTIC BASTARD.

He shrugged his shoulders. Who, me? As he walked past the CID room Sorbie’s smile followed him down the corridor. Another nail in the man’s coffin.

Denkhaus had left his door ajar. Lynn Tiery, his secretary, arched her eyebrows and puckered her lips but didn’t look up.

McLusky slid into the superintendent’s office and closed the door behind him. He remained standing and wasn’t invited to sit. Denkhaus slapped a copy of the Post across the desk, then slammed his open hand on the front page and began bellowing. ‘Have you lost your mind, McLusky? How dare you talk to the press without authorization? Since when do junior officers give interviews? What do you think the bloody press office is for?’

‘I’m really not sure what this is about. I didn’t talk to the press and I gave no interviews. Can I have a look?’

Denkhaus put an unpleasant smile on his fleshy face. ‘You haven’t seen the Post ? Then by all means borrow my copy, DI McLusky.’

He picked it up and read while Denkhaus impatiently quoted bits at him from memory. ‘Police have branded bomber a psychotic bastard! We are looking for a coward! Investigating officer doubts bomber will be caught any time soon ! God knows what will blow up next!’

An evil feeling stole into his stomach which had nothing to do with lack of food. He recognized his own thoughts but how …? Then it came to him. The chain-smoking woman upstairs at the Quiet Lady. ‘I didn’t know she was a journalist, sir. Just a chat with someone over a pint.’

Denkhaus thumped the top of the paper. ‘Phil Warren, that’s who she was.’ That’s what came from letting brand-new DIs loose when they didn’t know their way around town yet. He blamed himself. But McLusky should have had more sense than to express his opinions to a civilian like that. ‘It was underhand bloody tactics from Phil, which you should always expect from her. Of course we’ll make an official complaint but the damage is done now. The phones have been running hot. McLusky, you just can’t go and tell a civilian you think it’ll take a long time to catch this bastard. What’s the point of me giving press conferences, reassuring the public and managing the press if you shoot your mouth off in the pub? Were you drunk?’

‘No, sir, I don’t have that excuse.’

‘You think I’d accept drunkenness as an excuse? Don’t make things worse. You’re not endearing yourself to me, detective inspector . What’s more, did you mean it? Are you going to tell me you don’t think we’ll apprehend him any time soon?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. If the bomber turns out to be our skateboarder then we might wrap it up soon. But I have my doubts. In the absence of useful DNA or witnesses we’ll be hard pushed to make an early arrest. If the devices aren’t targeted, if they’re just left lying about, then the usual connection between victim and perpetrator isn’t there to tell us anything. Needless to say I have every confidence in the team. Jane, James Austin, I mean, is a first-rate detective.’

‘I know. But are you, McLusky?’ Denkhaus swivelled his chair and looked out over the city, hazy with pollution. There was no point giving the case to someone else, it would simply set the investigation back and if the papers got wind of it they would try and make something of it. McLusky would have to do for now. But he would have to do better. ‘I expect results. I want to see you making progress on tracking this guy. What do Forensics have to say?’