Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

Mitchell talked loudly, to give the pub the benefit of his wit. ‘Well, if it isn’t the delectable detective inspectorette . You just can’t resist my charms, can you?’ He smelled of aftershave and Southern Comfort. His thin wet lips stretched into a broad unpleasant smile. Fairfield realized she had reacted too late. If she slipped off the bar stool now he’d be towering over her by at least a foot and there was hardly space to turn around, the place was so crowded. He slapped a hand on the bar, attracting the attention of those who weren’t already watching. ‘The girl can’t help herself. The little inspector has the hots for me and just can’t stay away. I even had to take out a restraining order against her but here she is again like the proverbial bad penny.’ He was almost shouting now, no doubt for the benefit of the grinning audience at his table. One of his mates was filming the entire scene on his mobile. This wasn’t good. ‘What is this, police harassment or sexual harassment? Haven’t you got any mates that you have to follow me about? I told you before you’re not my type, sweetheart.’ Waggling his mobile in front of her he lowered his voice and spoke straight into her face from a distance of less than three inches. ‘You must think I’m real stupid if you think you can get to me like this. I could easily make life real difficult for you, love. One phone call from me to your boss Denkhaus and you’re up to your neck in shit. So fuck off, you stupid little bitch.’

Fairfield found that her hand was still holding on to her pint, gripping it hard. The urge to smash it into Mitchell’s face was strong but there was a stronger voice telling her to let go. Let this one go. There are too many witnesses. Say absolutely nothing. Back off. You’ll get him later. Be professional.

It was a career decision. She let go of the glass, took her leather handbag off the bar and used it to create enough space between herself and Mitchell to slide off the stool without colliding with his steamed-up face. The exit seemed a long distance away. She walked across the floor, people making way for her, many eyes following her. The boy with the phone was recording her retreat.

‘Piss off, copper!’ Not Mitchell’s, a young voice brave with anonymity. Someone near the door attempted a la-la-la version of a cop show’s title music. Applause broke out at Mitchell’s table, then she was outside, the door falling shut behind her, muting the noise.

Rain was bouncing off the pavement. Shit. She rummaged in her handbag for her tiny umbrella but it wasn’t there. There was no point in calling a cab, she couldn’t hang around here. It was only water. She struck out towards home through the hard city rain. And if she should cry, in this rain who would notice?

Libby Hart checked her watch. Six minutes to nine, very nearly done. She hated the new late opening hours. But libraries were struggling and it had been decided that more people would use the place if they stayed open late once a week. First Sunday opening, now late opening, soon all-night opening? She didn’t know if this really was improving library use since the numbers had not been worked out yet. She did know they had more problems with drunks when opening late, especially when it rained hard, like it had earlier on. Attracting new clients. Or was it ‘end-users’? What was wrong with calling them ‘people’? The library had changed over the last few years and she didn’t think it was for the better. People now came to watch videos and to use the internet. It certainly meant that more people came to the library without ever taking a book off the shelves. The noise level had risen with it, especially around the computers. You often heard mobiles ringing and being answered too despite the notice at the door asking for them to be turned off.

‘Goodnight, my colleague will let you out.’ She gave the young woman a relieved smile. That was the last one, she was sure. While Doug let the woman out she went on one last tour of the entire library just to make certain there was no one left ignoring the announcements or sitting asleep or hiding between the canyons of shelves, hoping to be locked in.

The woman had left a heavy red book lying on the table where she’d been sitting. Libby picked it up and took it on her tour of the library. A Chronicle of Crime. Infamous murderers and their heinous crimes , promised the subtitle. Why would anyone want to know about this stuff? She had reached the last corner of the library, the quietest one furthest away from the entrance. No one here either, the library was clear. She walked with the book towards the issue desk and wondered what had brought the woman to the library on a rainy evening to study this grisly tome. Grainy images of convicted murderers looked up at her from the cover. She opened it at random. Woman Kills Rival: Dumps Body on Wasteland . Libby hoped the woman who had studied it tonight hadn’t been looking for inspiration. She closed the book with a determined slap and set it heavily on to a trolley. One for the morning shift to sort out.

At the desk Doug had cashed up, locked the sliding cupboards and was now tidying away the last things on the desk. She liked working with Doug. He was near retirement age and only worked two days a week which meant he was a lot more cheerful than some she could mention.

‘I think we’ve done it, Libby.’

‘Yup, I think we have. And it’s even stopped raining.’

‘Good.’ He waved a fat silver biro. ‘Someone left this behind. If no one claims it by the end of the month I’ll have it. It’s nice.’

‘Put your name on it then.’

‘Certainly will.’ Doug ripped a square of yellow notepaper from a block and clicked the biro. It exploded in a gas-blue flash that left a red after-image on Libby’s retina. Doug’s hand was a pulpy red mass and there was blood streaming from his neck. His head trembled and his dimming eyes were fixed at a bloodied horizon thrumming with fear. His body crumpled and slumped behind the smouldering desk. For several heartbeats Libby stared at the space where he had stood. Then she filled her lungs and ran screaming for the door.

‘Will he live?’ McLusky was standing on top of a desk from where he could appraise the bloodstain on the carpet, the bloody foot- and handprints, arcs of spatters and the bloodied work station where the victim had stood. Scene of Crime were still hunting for bits of tissue as far as twenty feet away from the point of the explosion. The victim had been removed to the Royal Infirmary.

Austin, knee-high to his superior, shrugged. ‘Touch and go. If he does then it’s entirely thanks to his colleague who called the security guard who’s a first-aider. The ambulance would never have got here in time. He was losing a lot of blood from the wound in his neck.’

McLusky took another look at the bent and blackened stub of metal in the evidence bag he was holding. It was all that was left of a polished steel biro, thick as a finger, solid and seductive. Anyone using the library could have picked it up, staff or punter, man, woman or child. It was rigged to blow up as soon as someone tried to use it. A whisky tin, a beer can, a powder compact, a biro. It made no sense. McLusky jumped off the desk. ‘It makes no bloody sense. There’s no rhyme or reason I can see. Who’s he after? Just anyone? Does he have a grudge so vague that it doesn’t matter to him who he blows up?’

‘Perhaps he just likes building bombs and all else is incidental. Or perhaps Sorbie was right, there’s no motive.’

‘Then God help us.’ The large device in the park had merely been the overture, the rapping of a conductor’s baton in order to get everyone’s attention. Now the bomber was playing his tune and leading them a dance.