Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

‘No. Just wondered.’ He terminated the call. ‘A small amount of chocolate. A token chocolate. Symbolic chocolate. Which leaves us with a man who eats chocolates but has a perverted sense of humour. He gives you one chocolate but blows your fingers off. And that is what I want you to concentrate on in the next piece you write. He is a bastard . He’s a coward , he has a twisted sense of humour. He thinks he has a good reason for doing what he does but he hasn’t. It’s his delusions of self-importance that make him think he’s justified, not any cause he might have. And by using an Easter egg he’s clearly targeted children, which makes him the biggest coward imaginable.’

‘Says Detective Inspector Liam McLusky?’

‘Says a source close to the investigation .’

Warren’s face lit up. ‘You are trying to provoke him.’

‘Two can play.’

‘So you had contact before? He contacted you after my last piece, am I right?’

McLusky drank silently.

‘I knew it. What did he say? Did he call, write, email?’

‘Can’t tell you. You can’t mention it, it would put the entire investigation at risk. And that’s official. If I hear about it I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest.’

Warren snorted dismissively. ‘You won’t make it stick, no witnesses. So what’s in it for me?’

‘Exclusive when I get him.’

‘Can I have that in writing?’

McLusky drained his glass and stood up. ‘Don’t be daft. I gave you the piece of chocolate, that proves you have inside information. Go make the bastard feel small.’ He turned away towards the exit.

‘Do you drink at the Quiet Lady often, inspector?’

McLusky didn’t turn around. ‘No, never.’ In an inside pocket his mobile vibrated. A text message from Louise Rennie. Mud analysed. Collect results 8 pm at the Myristica, King Street. Smart casual . He texted his acceptance. Then he remembered the bin-liner waiting to be taken to the launderette and went in search of the nearest clothes shop to stock up on smart casual.

Sorbie fiddled with the strap on his helmet, having trouble remembering how it went through the double metal loop. It was such a long time since he’d ridden a motorbike. His hands fluttered a little with the adrenalin of it and he turned away from the patiently waiting vendor. No point giving the teenage mutant opportunity to sneer.

But it seemed the kid was more interested in the state of his helmet. ‘That’s old-fashioned lids for you. The new ones are all seatbelt style. I’m not being funny but you really should get a new one anyway, looks like yours has been dropped, you’ve got a scuff on the side. ‘

The scuff on the side of Sorbie’s helmet was the result of the spill that had interrupted his biking career ten years ago. His bike had not been worth repairing and a car had suddenly seemed a sensible alternative. Yet he had held on to the gear, along with vague dreams of one day making a comeback. And here it was. The teenage mutant with the nose-ring and eyebrow studs who now had a significant wodge of his hard-earned in his pocket was right, of course, the helmet was junk. It would probably come apart like a raw egg if his head hit the tarmac, but it satisfied the demands of the law. He had intended to buy a new one with the money he got off the asking price for the bike but had surprised himself again by how completely inept at haggling he was. ‘It’ll do for now.’

‘On your head be it.’

‘Ha, very good.’ At last the strap fastened. He shook hands with the kid, pulled on his gloves and straddled the tall trail bike. The engine growled into life and Sorbie’s excitement mounted. Ten years. He gingerly pulled away. In his mirrors he thought he saw the teenager shake his head. In response Sorbie accelerated away hard along the dimly lit street, trying to remember the way out of the estate back to the main road. When he reached it he opened the throttle wide and took off towards the dual carriage-way at twice the speed limit. ‘Yyyyyes!’ He shouted his delight inside his helmet, born again. The engine on this thing had enough grunt to catch any scooter and the bike was skinny enough to go wherever they went. Solo units with their half-ton of equipment and modifications could get stuck in traffic nearly as easy as a police car. But not this. This could go anywhere, on the road or off the road. And if he caught up with the bastard Mobile Muggers he’d blow them into the weeds for good. Unofficially of course. In his spare time.

Well, someone had to show some initiative round here.

Carol Farr could hardly believe how late it was. She should have been back by seven but her coach from London had been stuck on the motorway for two whole hours and even after that the traffic had crawled along. Two massive accidents, apparently. Once the traffic started moving again they had made the driver stop at a service station, the whole coach was dying for a wee and the onboard toilet was out of order. They had run out of refreshments for the passengers so half of them also queued to buy stuff like drinks and sandwiches. In the end it had taken another half-hour to get everyone back on board. What a nightmare journey.

She hated walking home in the dark but she had spent her last penny in that service station on a Coke, some chewing gum and a magazine just to alleviate the boredom. Should have bought a sandwich, starving now.

The bridge seemed to go on forever tonight. There was still quite a bit of traffic, which made her feel safer. She had turned her iPod off now she was in the suburbs. With the music and the wind and the traffic noise you wouldn’t hear if someone came up behind you. She checked over her shoulder — there was nobody walking on the bridge at all. Just her. The wind blustered in her ears and snatched at her clothes. It had been a good gig, worth going, just a shame Jo had managed to get ill at the last minute leaving her to go by herself. She’d bought her tickets ages ago, there was no way she was going to miss it. And it had been worth it. Then today, after leaving Jo’s friends who had put her up on the sofa, she’d done Oxford Street, mainly clothes and record shops. She didn’t have much money left to spend so in the end she’d bought three CDs and that was that. Sensible. She could have got more money out but the whole trip had already cost too much.

Well, that was the bridge done. Not that this was civilization yet, Bedminster Bridge led you into some scenery that was bloody depressing. Coronation Road seemed to go on forever, nothing but the muddy river and shrubbery to the right, supermarket car park and shrubbery to the left. And she had to walk right to the end of it to get home, what a boring end to a brilliant couple of days. Carol turned her iPod back on.

They were just sitting there, on their scooters, two on each on both sides of the road. Suddenly there was no more traffic. Why was there no traffic? She just knew it was them. They closed in quickly on their scooters, surrounding her. Two of them got off.

They all shouted at her. ‘Your bag, your money!’

‘Hand it over!’

‘Now!’

The biggest one ripped her bag open, took her mobile and the CDs. ‘Your money, where’s your fucking money?’

The pillion from the other scooter grabbed her hair and twisted, yanked back her head and grabbed at her throat. ‘The money, now!’

Carol tried to prise away his gloved hand but he tightened his grip and kneed her in the back. ‘I–I haven’t got any.’ She only just managed to squeeze the words out.

‘Don’t lie!’ The big man in front of her went through her outer pockets, then ripped her jacket open, pawing at the inside pocket.