Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

She knew she didn’t have much time. One or two of the lock-ups were in use at night. Someone might pass and notice the absence of the padlock on the hasp outside and decide to investigate. Or worse, call the police. As she let the beam of her torch travel over the high double row of shelving that ran along the centre of the cavern some of her determination evaporated. The place hadn’t changed much since the official search; if anything it was piled even higher with junk. A lot of this stuff had to have fallen off the back of various lorries but Mitchell’s paperwork had been quite convincing. And of course according to him whatever he couldn’t account for came from car boot sales.

Yet that was over sixty muggings and countless burglaries ago. Mitchell had had plenty of time to get careless and the bastard had complacency written all over him. She remembered it well. Fairfield opened a box at random. It contained a lava lamp with a Continental two-pin plug. The next was tightly packed with vinyl records, Abide With Me — Fifty Favourite Hymns, Christmas with Des O’Connor … The next box contained a jumble of cables and several clock radios. This could go on all night. There was no system here, it would take Mitchell hours to find a specific item unless he had a photographic memory. Most of it was junk too, he’d never afford the flat in Clifton and a Jaguar, however naff, on selling old tea kettles.

A rustling sound near her feet made her flash her light that way. A cockroach scuttled under the shelf. She moved on, glad she was wearing trainers. Towards the end of the space against the right-hand wall stood a large metal locker with double doors. She turned the black iron door knob and pulled. It opened quietly on well-oiled hinges yet the two shelves inside displayed nothing but oily rags, a few computer magazines and a chain of outdoor Christmas lights. A sudden eddy of cold air around her calves made her shiver and she closed the door.

Against the damp back wall stood a warped table supporting a grimy electric kettle, plastic bottles of water, a carton of tea bags and a tower of polystyrene cups. The plastic bin next to it was heaped high with used tea bags and cups. Fairfield examined a pint of semi-skimmed for freshness. It was well within its use-by date. A lot of tea was being drunk in these less than salubrious surroundings, half a stone’s throw from the cafe. It didn’t constitute a punishable crime but seemed a strange economy measure. Unless a lot of tea was being drunk outside cafe opening hours.

Fairfield prodded a few more boxes in the centre aisle. Strictly speaking it was she who was committing a crime here. This is where her stupid obsession with one unimportant lowlife had got her: standing in a mouldering lock-up with nothing but cockroaches for company. It was time to get out of here. It was definitely time to get a life. Perhaps she would go and take those lads up on their offer and have a quick drink in the pub. Or have a lot of quick drinks in the pub and leave the car. And should anyone ask, she could be an aromatherapist or a postie or something else people didn’t have issues with.

The sound of the neighbouring lock-up being opened up seemed unnaturally loud. Time to go. Fortunately, because the entrances alternated end to end, the neighbour would be unaware of the missing padlock on Ady Mitchell’s door.

Despite the thick walls Fairfield felt compelled to tiptoe along the shelves. Yet she was wholly unprepared for the sudden movement right by her side when the entire locker she had examined earlier swung inwards with a metallic groan. Light from the lock-up next door flooded in. Fairfield dropped on to the dusty cement and lay still. No wonder they’d never found anything in here. The two lock-ups connected.

Fairfield lay on the floor listening to the footsteps moving to the end of the lock-up. Water was being poured and the kettle began to hum. So far Mitchell had not turned on the strip lights, making do with what illumination fell through the hole in the wall from the lock-up next door. The increasing noise of the kettle gave Fairfield the confidence to retreat backwards, in a crouch, to the furthest aisle where it was practically dark. Reminding herself that she was on the right side of the law made no difference: she knew that if she was discovered it would jeopardize any chances of convicting Mitchell and put the brakes on her career forever. But she had to get a better view. Slowly she advanced up the aisle until she found herself opposite the open metal locker on the other side. Through a chink between boxes she could just make out a van parked in the lock-up next door. A greengrocer’s van. So that’s how it was done, it had to be. The scooters were launched from the van and, after the muggings, disappeared into the back of it. Greengrocer’s van … you wouldn’t even register it if what you were looking for was a couple of scooters.

Fairfield moved back to the darkest corner while Mitchell’s distorted shadow jumped jerkily across the back wall as he made his tea. Mitchell’s mobile chimed. ‘Yeah, what the fuck happened to you, where were you? I waited for you … Oh, for fuck’s sake. On a motorbike? What did you have to mess with him for? I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Stay where you are and I’ll pick you up. What a complete fucking mess.’ A change of tone suggested the phone call had been terminated and Mitchell was on the move and talking to himself now. ‘Fucking morons. Brainless stupid thugs. Psycho fucking junkies. You just can’t get the fucking staff.’

A scrape followed by a metallic groan and clang left Fairfield in darkness once more, yet breathing more easily. Almost immediately the van’s engine started next door. As soon as she was sure Mitchell had driven off she switched on her pen light and let herself out at the front. The original padlock clicked into place. She gave it a quick wipe, snapped off her gloves and walked towards the Railway Tavern. Even as she dialled the CID room’s number she was beginning to feel as though she had unexpectedly recovered from a long illness. There seemed to be more oxygen in the air, too. ‘Dearlove, just the man I was looking for. DI Fairfield. Listen, Deedee — yes, I know it’s the end of your shift but speed is of the essence here. Listen, I had an anonymous tip-off about the Mobile Muggers …’ She rattled off a list of what she wanted, from the officers required to form a welcome committee at the warehouses to an arrest warrant for Ady Mitchell. Then she tried DS Sorbie’s mobile and got a service message — his number was unavailable.

There was not much time for strategy. Sorbie’s bike leapt forwards, the front wheel briefly lifting as the acceleration pushed it towards his adversaries with a satisfying growl. The higher the speed the more stable the machine. He raced up through the gears. The overloaded scooter screamed towards him on the clear strip of concrete in the centre of the tunnel, the pillion brandishing a piece of lead piping in his right hand like a mace. Nothing in his left though, he was holding on with that. As the gap rapidly closed between the two machines each occupied the left margin of the centre as though traffic rules still mattered. ‘Tales of the unexpected, morons!’ At the last possible moment Sorbie cut across the oncoming scooter’s path, causing the rider to swerve to his right. His pillion swivelled to get a right-handed swing at him on the wrong side. It was enough. The scooter bounced into a pile of rubbish at 30 mph, spat off its passengers and crumpled as it slid along the wall.

For a few breathless seconds Sorbie’s own bike snaked and bucked in the rubbish until the wheels regained the tarmac of the path at the exit of the underpass where he braked hard. His hot breath had steamed up the visor. He flipped it up and looked back into the dusk of the tunnel. The other scooter rider was performing a wobbly turn, abandoning his crashed team mates. ‘No honour among thieves.’ His own turn was hardly less ragged but once back on tarmac there would be no contest. He’d kick the bastards off their scooter and run over their sorry arses if they still had a mind to get up afterwards. He stopped beside the crashed riders, noting with satisfaction that both of them remained on the ground. It looked like broken ankles to him. For a moment he hesitated. He had two in the bag, not a bad night’s work. But his adrenalin demanded the chase go on. These two wouldn’t scoot much for a while anyway. He left them lying in a cloud of his exhaust.