Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

Halfway up the next street there was the car, with a brick behind the offside rear wheel since the handbrake was as dodgy as the rest of the thing. Some old cars were quite cool but this one was just embarrassing. Rebecca opened the hatchback door. Impatiently she rifled through the empty plastic bags and rubbish — nothing. She opened the passenger door and looked in the footwell then searched the glove box — nothing. There was a letter on the passenger seat. She picked it up. It just said Inspector McLusky on the envelope and no stamp or anything, someone must have dropped it in the car, someone who knew it would be unlocked or they’d have stuck it under the windscreen wipers. Probably someone wanting him to park his eyesore somewhere else. Well, damn, no camera. Where the hell was it, then? She pocketed the letter and slammed the passenger door shut with all the force of her frustration.

Like a biblical column of fire a gas-blue flame rose from the centre of the driver’s seat, reaching up to the roof with a fierce hiss. Seconds later flames and smoke spread out and began to engulf the entire interior. Now all she could see was a dull red glow at the centre of the blackness, filling the car like an evil eye. Incredulous and transfixed by the spectacle, she forced herself to move backwards away from the car, just as the first window blew out.

The further the interview had progressed the clearer it had become that John Kerswill simply didn’t fit the bill. He was far too busy reclaiming his lost boyhood to litter the city with explosives. McLusky hadn’t had much time or inclination to think about the effect the bombs were having on the rest of the city. In sharp contrast Superintendent Denkhaus, in whose office he found himself after releasing Kerswill, had been only too aware, having had to field urgent questions from the press, business leaders and the Assistant Chief Constable.

‘It’s the randomness of the attacks, McLusky, that scares people. I’m told hotel and B amp;B bookings are down by forty per cent. Businesses are hurting. Even if we apprehended the culprit today the damage is already done, people are going elsewhere. And it’s not just the tourist industry that’s suffering, I mean some people have taken their kids out of school.’ Denkhaus stood and turned his back on McLusky while he took in the panoramic view his large window afforded him. Policing had ramifications well beyond crime prevention and detection: it influenced economics and politics and was in turn influenced by politics and dictated to by economics. It was as well if young DIs understood that. He was under constant pressure, not just from the ACC but from the mayor’s office and representatives of the business community. ‘Our citizens don’t feel safe any more, small retailers report a drop in sales. Pubs and clubs get fewer people through their doors. People shop at the supermarkets and spend more time indoors. More worrying still, two major conferences have been moved to other cities and the organizers of the half-marathon are thinking of postponing until the autumn, and the kite festival was nearly cancelled.’

‘Kite festival nearly cancelled?’

Denkhaus turned to face the young DI. He couldn’t remember, did he have children? Not that it mattered. ‘Yes, so you see how far-reaching and unexpected the consequences of these attacks are. It simply can’t be allowed to continue. A valuable yacht was destroyed in this latest outrage. People will seek mooring for their expensive boats elsewhere. If that happens then the plans for the harbourside development could be jeopardized. The development depends entirely on investors having complete confidence that our city is the right place to be.’ Denkhaus quoted almost verbatim from the tirade he had endured from the ACC earlier that day.

McLusky nodded distractedly. ‘Indeed, sir.’ Kite festival, now why did that ring a bell? The bell it rang had an uncomfortable sound. It conjured up a nagging, like a thing he’d forgotten to do, like an unposted letter. He would look in his notes …

‘I presume DI Fairfield’s success didn’t escape your notice? We finally got the Mobile Muggers off the streets …’

‘Quite literally, too.’

‘Yes, quite.’ Denkhaus allowed himself a smile. ‘It was pure good fortune that DS Sorbie happened to be there on his day off. And he reacted professionally and bravely. Even saved the life of one of them. Jumped after him into the river and dragged him to safety. The other one either drowned or got away. And practically at the same time Fairfield got an anonymous tip-off and was able to catch Mitchell, a notorious fence, red-handed as he was bringing the rest of the gang to his lock-up. We were there ready and waiting. Intelligence-led policing, McLusky. The man was actually running the gang, even supplying them with the scooters. So you can see, persistence and hard work pay off. It certainly didn’t do Fairfield and Sorbie’s clear-up rates any harm. You on the other hand appear to be — ’ There was a loud knock. ‘Yes, what is it?’

Lynn Tiery appeared in the door, frowning at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Sorry to interrupt. There’s an urgent message for DI McLusky, concerning his car.’

Denkhaus insisted on driving them there, despite McLusky’s protests. The superintendent’s lecture continued on the tortuous drive across town but drifted at last into reminiscences, how he himself had risen through the ranks, starting as a beat officer in a small West Country town, grasping every opportunity, applying himself, not bucking the system. And here he was, ambitions fulfilled. He had no desire to rise any higher, not wanting to lose touch with real, frontline policing.

The street was blocked with police, fire engines and a fire investigator’s car. They abandoned the Land Rover in the middle of the road and walked up without speaking. Accident, vandalism or the bomber, all depended on the verdict of the fire investigators.

They showed their IDs and approached what was left of the Polo, a blackened evil-smelling shell. A sulking Rebecca was there, being shadowed by a PC. She pounced on McLusky. ‘You took your time getting here, they’re treating me as though I set fire to the damn thing. It just caught fire, I swear, I just slammed the door and whoosh, up it went. I was just looking for my camera.’

McLusky calmed her down and sent the PC on her way. Almost immediately a fire investigator confirmed their suspicions. ‘A small device wired into the springs of the driver’s seat. Nasty. Had you sat in it you’d have been in trouble. There was no explosion, it was an incendiary device, probably a mixture of accelerant like petrol, some flammable adhesive perhaps, magnesium, some kind of trigger.’

‘Shit, I nearly sat in it! Ouch!’ Rebecca’s hand made an involuntary move to her behind.

Ignoring her, Denkhaus raised an impatient eyebrow at McLusky. ‘Who’s the young lady? How did she come to search your car?’

‘Ehm, she’s staying at my — ’

‘I’m his girlfriend.’ Was his girlfriend. Definitely was. He had the same problem she did, obviously, he had practically disowned her there and then. ‘And the coach to the airport goes in less than an hour from college. Can I go now?’

Denkhaus turned away to talk to the leading fire officer about the safe removal of the car.

‘I gotta go, Liam. Oh, here, nearly forgot.’ She pulled the letter from her pocket. ‘Sorry, bit crumpled. Found it on the driver’s seat.’

Same typeface, same envelope. McLusky folded it nonchalantly into a jacket pocket. ‘When are you back?’

‘Seven days.’ It was only five but she gave herself a couple of days in hand, time to think, make a final decision. ‘Can’t remember what time the plane lands, I’ll call your mobile.’ She kissed him hard on the mouth but disengaged herself almost immediately. ‘Don’t want to embarrass you any further. Really gotta go now. Buenos dias .’