Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

‘Very little, sir. Home-made devices, commercial gunpowder extracted from fireworks. There’s no report on the beer can yet but the preliminary report on the powder compact said it also contained a proportion of magnesium, which burns with a bright, intensely hot flame. That’s what did the damage there. All the ingredients, everything about the devices is freely available to anyone, though we are checking with suppliers of course.’

‘And no useful DNA?’

‘None at all, sir. If there ever was any, then it was destroyed when the devices went up.’

The faint cries of gulls penetrated through the glass along with the sound of car horns. Denkhaus nodded sagely. Destroyed . That reminded him. One thing he had to give McLusky: he wrote a good report. His account of how he had used the plain unit against the digger so he could get the woman out of the house read very well. It was bound to be pure fabrication but the ACC would be satisfied with it and that’s what really mattered. ‘Right.’ He swivelled round to face the DI, who was still standing. The man had one hand in his pocket and looked far too relaxed. ‘In future you will play your cards close to your chest and be a lot more careful who you talk to. I’ll see what I can do to calm the waters but it will be difficult. Stirring up panic sells papers which means they’ll milk this for all it’s worth. The next time you have something you wish the public to know you can talk to the press office. After talking to your superiors. I am very disappointed, McLusky. You have seriously undermined my public relations efforts. Now get out there and catch the psychotic bastard before the coward kills again.’

McLusky bit back the remark that actually he had been out there when he was called in here. He just nodded and left the office. Lynn Tiery’s eyebrows had returned to their normal position but she still didn’t bother looking up.

DI Fairfield was glad when she could reasonably call her shift finished and leave. Since it was Saturday she had left her Renault at home and taken the bus in. At least if that got stuck in the Saturday protests you could get off and walk. Miraculously she had managed to get to work this morning before the traffic seized up. Now she was walking home. Cars were still crawling through the centre and going on foot would probably be quicker. What she really needed was a drink. She had briefly considered the Green Man but the prospect of a pub full of colleagues, mainly those with no real homes to go to, failed to rouse her enthusiasm. Not that she felt great fervour for anything much at the moment. There seemed to be no movement anywhere, not in her work and not in her private life. The recent upsurge in burglaries had them all playing catch-up; sometimes householders didn’t see police until days after the event and complained bitterly to the poor officer who eventually did turn up. At least the Mobile Muggers gave it a rest at the weekend, though other street robberies increased. As a result her last two, or was it three, drawing classes had slipped away because she had simply been too tired to contemplate them. On the plus side McLusky had been reprimanded today for shooting his mouth off to the press, which meant her day had not been a complete write-off.

Fairfield was nearing her Cotham maisonette. The place seemed full of students, all walking in the opposite direction to her, knowing something she didn’t. It had taken her over half an hour to walk. The wind was now in the south; unseasonal cold had given way to curiously mild air. Abruptly she stopped walking as though her energy supply had been cut off. What was she going home for? There really was no point. She was tired but it wasn’t the kind of tiredness that could be cured by sleep. It was a tiredness of the mind that hung in strength-sapping billows around every thought. Her place would be empty. There was nothing she’d fancy eating in the house because the last time she’d been shopping she had foolishly decided to be virtuous and leave all her cravings unanswered. Damn. She didn’t want to spend another night drinking supermarket plonk in front of the telly. It was Saturday, when had she started staying in on Saturday nights? Probably years ago, she could hardly remember when she’d last been out having a good time. Or even trying to have a good time. Or just been out, even. She used to have a couple of girlfriends who could be relied upon for going into town with, but one had moved to London and the other was busy night-feeding twins.

If she was going to go out for a drink she should really go home and change first. And eat something. Only by the time she’d showered, changed, eaten something sensible in her sensible kitchen and come out again she’d be too fed up to enjoy a drink. She’d end up in front of the telly drinking supermarket plonk, she just knew it.

The kebab place was open and willing. When she emerged with her hot and soft parcel of junk food she looked guiltily up and down the street. She should arrest herself for crimes against nutrition. What would her mother say to this bad imitation of Greek food? Her mind went back to the light and heat of Kerkyra, where one of her numerous distant cousins had sweated cheerfully in a real psistaria , handing her fragrant kebabs in soft pitta bread at the price of a smile. On Sundays he would take her to the beach on the back of his tiny scooter … Kat blinked the images away. She hadn’t been back there for years. It seemed so long ago, so far away, it might as well have happened on a different planet or in a different life. Perhaps it had happened to someone else.

A distant rumble of thunder made her look up. Black clouds were drifting across on the warm southerly breeze. It didn’t matter, she knew where she was headed now. With practised timing she made the last morsel of junk food disappear just as she arrived at the Black Swan. It would be full of men, drinking with one or both eyes on the giant TV screen, but at least there would be no loud music. Any port in a storm.

The place was busy, all the tables taken. She found a free bar stool. The men occupying the others checked her over, some staring unapologetically. She was resigned to the fact that she would have to fend off some kind of unwanted attention sooner or later. It was the price you paid for being a woman and daring to drink alone.

She decided that after what she had just eaten only lager would do. The barman obliged. After draining half of her pint she was beginning to feel that perhaps the evening might be rescued after all. Fairfield relaxed her shoulders.

Then she heard the voice. There was no mistaking Ady Mitchell’s flat vowels and sloppy consonants. At first she couldn’t make out what he was saying above the general noise. He was talking excitedly, then there followed the laughter of several men. She turned slowly around to look, hoping that she hadn’t been discovered. He was sitting at a table with three other men she didn’t recognize. Mitchell himself was about forty, large, with a spreading tonsure of baldness. He was holding forth to his younger audience with his flat hard face grinning straight at her. Fairfield thought she heard him say, ‘Watch this, guys,’ as he made a big show of getting up, taking a drink, then working his way across the pub towards her.

Why did the bastard have to be drinking in this of all places? After her official reprimand for ‘harassing’ Mitchell outside his lock-up this was a bad situation. And Mitchell knew it. Fairfield reached for her glass, intending to empty it before leaving, but it was too late. Mitchell appeared beside her, elbowing her neighbour in the ribs to make space for himself. The man looked up ready to take umbrage. Recognizing the hunger for a fight in Mitchell’s face he changed his mind and retired to a safe distance, taking his drink with him.