Falling More Slowly (15 page)

‘Right, let’s talk to him.’

‘He’s already given us a statement. He saw the can of –’

‘I want to hear it myself.’ He marched off and Austin followed in his wake.

They found the front door ajar. McLusky announced himself. ‘Hello, police. Can we come in?’

A man appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘Oh yes, in here, if you will.’

They stepped into the brightly lit hall and squeezed past an electric bicycle to get to the back. The witness was at home to visitors in his kitchen. Mr Belling was a small wiry man in his late sixties. He wore a thin steel-grey sweater over a pink shirt and thin grey tie. His wrists were encircled by two wristwatches, one on each side.

PC Purkis was enjoying a mug of tea at the kitchen table and Mr Belling was glad of the policewoman’s company. The thing had been quite a surprise. He also hadn’t enjoyed this much attention since he broke his collarbone five years ago. And here were more people coming.

McLusky showed his ID and introduced Austin. They gratefully accepted the offer of refreshments.

Belling fussed over the tea for the newcomers and when everyone was settled around the table McLusky invited him to repeat what he had seen. Belling made himself comfortable on his chair. His was the one with the cushion. McLusky suspected that Mr Belling spent many hours sitting on that cushion, writing letters to the council in blue biro.

Belling took a sip of tea first. ‘I had of course spotted the tin of lager on top of the car earlier but I had assumed it to be empty. These days people chuck their rubbish wherever they like. For instance, you are only supposed to put your bin bags out on a Tuesday but sure enough every week the people in number twenty …’

McLusky drank his tea and let the man get there in his own time. It was dry and warm in here.

‘It was the shouting that made me look out this time. I was upstairs so I could clearly see him standing outside the pub, shouting. Well, I say standing but he was swaying. You could tell he was drunk, he had that leery kind of voice they get. Then he urinated right there outside the pub, between the cars, that’s usually a good indication of drunkenness, I find. Then off he went, nearly fell over
twice before he made it to the car. I couldn’t read the number plate, even with my binoculars, because of the angle. But I was going to call the police right away if he drove off, because he was obviously dangerously over the limit. He picked up the tin from the roof and I thought he was going to throw it away, which would have been typical of his kind, but he took it with him when he got in. I was waiting for him to start the engine but instead the car just exploded. Just like that. Bang. Except it didn’t sound at all like it does on the radio, it sounded much nastier. All the windows blew out, stuff all over the place. It rattled my window and set off every damn car alarm in the neighbourhood. I called for an ambulance straight away, of course.’

McLusky thought he knew the answer but asked the question anyway. ‘What did you do after that?’

‘Well, I went back to the window, of course, to see what would happen next.’

‘You didn’t go outside to see if you could offer any assistance?’

‘Go outside? A bomb had just gone off! I was hardly going to go where I could be blown up. Everyone in the street had to have heard it, some of them would go, no need for me to go outside.’

‘Quite. Let’s go back a little. You said you had noticed the can of beer on the car roof earlier. How much earlier?’

‘Oh, now let me have a look in my journal. I keep a journal, you know, of all the happenings around here. You’d be surprised what goes on. It’s upstairs, I’ll fetch it down.’ Belling disappeared.

The three police officers exchanged glances. Austin nodded ironically. ‘Very organized.’

PC Purkis agreed in a low voice. ‘Everything in this house is very proper and in its rightful place.’

McLusky looked around the kitchen. Everything was. Immaculately straight, spotlessly clean, nightmarishly tidy and neon-lit. He already knew the old man would tell him
to within two decimal points what happened when. CCTV had nothing on Mr Belling.

He returned with a brightly coloured child’s exercise book. ‘Here, you see, I did note it down. I came to the window because number seventeen were having a fresh row, shouting at the top of their lungs as usual, but the tin wasn’t there then. Then I came back to the window because the motorized skateboard was coming through again with that awful two-stroke noise.’

McLusky perked up. ‘Motorized skateboard?’

‘Yes, trailing blue smoke too, as if there wasn’t enough pollution in this city, now they have to fit engines to their skateboards.’

‘Do you think you could describe the skateboarder for us, Mr Belling?’

Mr Belling could. ‘One of those chaps who dress like a child even though they are clearly over thirty. Spiky hair, you’d think they’d wear a helmet, wouldn’t you, but I suspect that would spoil the image. He does have gloves and knee protectors. A red scarf and sunglasses, even when there is no sun, of course. Yes. Now … 19.04 p.m., that’s when I noticed the tin. And the explosion occurred at 20.15 exactly.’

It was exactly midnight when McLusky left Albany Road by taxi. The rain had stopped but the snakes of traffic hadn’t. Hordes of young people, wearing surprisingly little considering the weather, were pressing through the narrow streets and alleys of the Old Town, shouting, some staggering, some drinking from cans and bottles. He spotted two teenage boys pissing side by side against a shop window, talking happily while the urine sloshed around their trainers. Flying insults, laughter, angry argument, excited howls. Twice the cab stopped for drunks swaying across the street, the driver muttering under his breath but
keeping his opinions to himself, for which McLusky was grateful.

Reams of statements had been taken during house-to-house inquiries and from the landlord and patrons of the George and Dragon. McLusky had spoken to the landlord himself. The man was visibly shaken by the death of Frank Dudden, who had been a regular. He had thrown him out that night ‘for his own good’ as he had believed. Now he felt that somehow he had sent him to his death and felt responsible. He had neither heard nor seen a motorized skateboarder, ‘not today, not ever’. Not that kind of pub, he had assured him.

Belling’s description matched exactly those of the residents of Berkeley Square and Charlotte Street who had been annoyed by a skateboarder prior to the first bomb in Brandon Hill. Could it be a coincidence? McLusky didn’t like coincidences.

Only two other residents in the immediate area remembered the skateboarder but neither had seen or heard him recently. The proliferation of underpowered scooters howling up and down the streets probably meant that the sound was too unexceptional to be noticed around there.

A description had now been circulated force-wide and he was sure they would pick him up eventually. Was he the bomber? He’d certainly like a chance to ask him.

If the skateboarder was connected to the bombs then he wanted to be caught – why else make yourself conspicuous? – and McLusky would oblige. And when he caught up with the bastard he’d better be wearing his knee-pads.

McLusky had overruled Austin’s decision to set up an incident room near the scene of the murder. Austin had tried to argue but McLusky was adamant. ‘This won’t be the last. The devices are going off at such close intervals we’ll still be stuck out here in Knowle West when the next one blows.’

Secretly Austin had been relieved. There would have been very few facilities out there and setting up at Albany Road was always far easier and quicker. And closer to the canteen.

McLusky had been impressed by the speed with which things had materialized – tables, chairs, phones, terminals, printers, monitors, civilian IT staff, fax and kettle. It couldn’t really be called ‘well rehearsed’. The murder rate in the city was so high rehearsal was unnecessary. It was now simply routine.

This morning, as McLusky looked at the civilians and officers talking on phones or clacking away on grey, battered keyboards, he felt panic beginning to bubble on the floor of his stomach. But why? What was different this time? Precisely nothing apart from the fact that the victim had died. It would be no easier or harder getting a lead. Strikingly different was the effect the bomb had had on the media. The press was making much of beer, booze and bomb alliteration. The unusual packaging of the bombs had attracted the national press too. Everyday items like powder compacts and cans of lager were not supposed
to explode. There was much speculation about the choice of item. The beer can was surely aimed at drunks and the powder compact at the vain. Yet the more intelligent writers did spot what McLusky had said from the start, that anyone might have picked the items up and become a victim. That didn’t mean of course that there was no connection in the mind of the maniac behind the bombings.

He noticed several of the computer operators sit up straighter which meant Superintendent Denkhaus had once more appeared in the open door behind him. A desk facing away from the door had been a bad choice. The super appeared at his elbow and without comment added another national paper to the pile already there. He managed to see
Deadly Drink
in the headline before Denkhaus leant a fleshy hand on it and bent close to him. ‘I’m giving a press conference at half eleven. Have you got any pearls for me that I can throw before the lions or are you sending me out there naked?’

A moment of metaphorical bafflement made McLusky hesitant. ‘Ehm, no. I mean, nothing new since we last spoke, super. We have the skateboarder near two of the incidents but I’d rather you didn’t use him to protect your modesty. So to speak. Just … following your metaphor, sir. I don’t want him to know we are looking for him. He can easily unspike his hair and float the skateboard down the river.’

Denkhaus shrugged heavily. ‘On the other hand someone must know who he is. If your friend or neighbour rode a skateboard with an engine on it you would know about it. We could be looking at an early arrest …’

‘I doubt it, sir. The man’s a loner. He makes bombs, so he’s unlikely to sit on the pub quiz team. He’s too busy hating someone, something. His neighbours might have no idea he’s got a motorized skateboard. I imagine he takes it in the back of his car. He drives to a car park, puts on the gear and gets on the skateboard. Then off he goes. The
same in reverse. If he has a garage his neighbours might never know.’

‘Someone will have seen him take the thing out and start it up.’

‘Sure. It’s what I’m hoping but I don’t want to spook him. As long as he’s using the skateboard he’s conspicuous. I’ll find him.’

Denkhaus didn’t like the way McLusky said, ‘I’ll find him.’ Police work was team work. He knew the McLusky type. They thought they’d invented detective work, thought that it was all down to them and that they could bend the rules. Cocky guys full of ‘I’ when the going was good. When it all came to nothing it was back to the collective ‘we’. I succeed, we fail. ‘Do you really think he could be our man?’

‘He’s all we’ve got at the moment.’

‘You were quite sure about letting Colin Keale go. You don’t want to pull him in again, apply a bit more pressure?’

‘Not until we’ve exhausted everything else. Not until I’m getting desperate.’

‘Don’t worry, McLusky, I’ll tell you when you’re getting desperate.’ Denkhaus straightened up and squinted at the window. Rain clouds hung low over the city. ‘I hate going out there fielding questions without having anything positive to feed them. There’s no progress on the muggings and no progress on the bomber. All the press are ever looking for is incompetence or negligence. They’re forever trying to blame us for what’s happening out there. In fact what gives the media the biggest hard-on is resignations, hounding someone until they are forced to resign. Makes them feel their crummy little lives are worth living. I’m already getting my ears chewed from upstairs about this. They’re afraid the bomber might cause a panic. If people start panicking then we really aren’t doing our job properly. What’s happened to the spirit of the blitz? All it takes is one little …’

The phone on the desk rang. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He answered it. It was Lynn Tiery, the superintendent’s secretary. She had the Assistant Chief Constable’s office on the line for Superintendent Denkhaus. ‘It’s the ACC for you.’

Denkhaus suppressed a groan. ‘I’ll take it in my office. Keep me informed. About every detail. Whether there’s progress or not.’

When Denkhaus was out of earshot the civilian computer operator at the next desk looked up from the lists on his screen. ‘No pressure then.’

‘Not yet. Is it me or is it bloody freezing in here?’

A cheerful chorus answered his question. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here.’

‘Can we do anything about that?’

‘Nope. The heating shuts down automatically on this day every year irrespective of the actual temperature. Centrally managed. It would probably take an Act of Parliament to get it changed.’

‘Marvellous.’ If he had to be cold he’d rather be cold out there where he could do something useful. Footage from the car park where the compact was left was still being sifted. A check on all identified vehicles was being done. It would take time to cross-check if any of the registered owners had previous and those would end up on the top of the list to be interviewed about their movements. Endless man-hours. Of course it had to be done but McLusky was almost certain it was a waste of time. Unfortunately he had nothing rational to base this conviction on so could do little about it. What he could do was get out of here.

Damp humanity crowded the lobby. An entire minibus-load of day-trippers were reporting all their possessions stolen, including their bus. A couple of pale, thin-haired teenage boys were being processed, the evidence of their thieving in a clear plastic bag on the desk: CDs and DVDs. They wore nothing more than jeans, T-shirts and trainers and looked like they’d swum there. The rain appeared to
do little to dampen the public’s enthusiasm for mayhem. Theft, shoplifting, burglary and naturally all crime connected to drugs continued unabated. Domestic violence rose slightly. Only the figures for indecent exposure were significantly depressed by cold, wet weather.

McLusky turned on the windscreen wipers of the Polo. They were useless. It was even colder in the car. The lack of heating meant he had to drive with the window half open to stop the windscreen fogging up completely. He kept wiping a patch so he could peer through. The route to Forthbank Industrial Park in the east forced him to battle through some of the worst traffic snarls in the city. Wedged between two articulated lorries in his underpowered car and barely able to see through the spray kicked up by other vehicles he darkly pondered his transport problems. When the sign to the industrial park appeared out of the gloom he gratefully pulled off the busy A road and through the open gates. Among a monkey puzzle of signposts McLusky found what he was looking for.

The place looked like an enormous upturned mushroom punnet, appearing to have practically no windows, and advertised itself with three-foot comic-strip lettering above the entrance: Blackrock Sports Park. He was about to lock his car when he changed his mind, checked that the glove box was empty and left the Polo unlocked.

In the lobby he showed his ID to the man behind the counter. The receptionist looked about fourteen. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

‘Could be. This is a skateboard arena, right?’

‘Skateboarding and rock climbing.’

‘Do you ever get people with motorized skateboards here?’

The kid laughed. ‘No fear. Total no-no. Anyway, they’re crap.’

Perhaps he had better talk to a grown-up. ‘I see. Who runs this place?’

‘Spike.’

‘Spike who?’

‘
I
don’t know, just Spike.’ His tone suggested this was an unreasonable question.

‘Is he in? Can I talk to him?’

‘Sure, he’s on the course. Through those doors and then the next. You can’t miss him, no one else wears yellow after all.’

‘Why’s that?’ McLusky suspected some arcane rule of skateboarding.

‘Do you wear yellow much, inspector?’

He thought the kid might have a point. By the next set of double doors a sign instructed him to take off his street shoes before entering the echoing hall and he complied, carrying his shoes and feeling slightly ridiculous. The arena was an artificial landscape of ramps and pipes and rails, flights of steps and curves. It was a big place. He wouldn’t have called it busy but it still surprised him how many people had time and money to skate around here on a weekday.

A spiky-haired man in what looked like a yellow romper suit made from shiny synthetics was chatting to a diminutive girl. When he spotted the unlikely-looking intruder he came rolling over, flipping up his board as he stopped in an automatic gesture. ‘Help you?’

‘McLusky, CID. I’ve already been told by your receptionist, no motorized skateboards here.’

‘Certainly not. Why d’you ask? Someone making a nuisance of themselves?’

The place echoed to the sound of rubber wheels and grinding boards and the rain drumming on the giant roof. ‘I’m looking for someone who rides one, he could be a witness. Spiked hair, skinny, same age as you perhaps, mid-to-late thirties. Wears denims, scarf, shades. He rides a skateboard with a little two-stroke engine and wire control.’

‘Yup. It’s for idiots. A gimmick. You won’t find anyone using them here, that’s for sure.’

‘What, because of the noise or the pollution?’

‘Nah, that’s not the point. It’s like bicycles and motorbikes, right? It just don’t mix. And you can’t really do a thing with ’em.’

‘So what do people do in here?’

‘Well, as you can see, we’ve got the lot. You don’t skate, I take it?’

‘You’re very astute.’

‘You’d be surprised. We get all sorts here. Well, there’s basically two types of skating, there’s street skating and ramp skating. In street skating you could for instance jump up on a bus-stop seat or suchlike and do grinds and board slides, tail grinds and stuff. In half-pipe skating you go up and down the ramp and do tricks on the ledge. Over here we’ve got a couple of half-pipes, a jump ramp …’

The man got into the swing of it and McLusky let him carry on without really taking in much. Spike seemed to talk in a different language and each sentence contained at least three words that appeared to be English but which McLusky had never heard before.

At the opposite end of the hall a skater coasted quietly towards the exit. He didn’t like the look of that man who had just come in. He had seen the suit show some kind of ID and somehow he didn’t look like a health-and-safety guy. It might have nothing to do with him but he’d make himself scarce anyway. As he slipped through the doors while the copper’s back was turned he thought that perhaps it was just as well they made you wear helmets in here. Spiky hair was too conspicuous. He’d change it, slick it back from now on. Not bothering to shower and change, he just cleared the things from the locker and went straight to his van. He stowed his gear in the back, next to his brand new motorized board, still in its box. Electric, rechargeable, much quieter and even faster than the two-stroke one. And environmentally much more sound, mustn’t forget that, of course. Apparently it had a range big enough to get you right across the city. He saw himself skating silently,
magically, across town.
Stealthboard
. But first it needed to be charged. Then he could use it tomorrow night.

The Polo was still there. Ah well, give it time. Somehow the musty interior managed to feel colder than the outside. What McLusky had learned from Spike seemed to fit with what he himself thought of the bomber. A motorized skateboard was regarded as uncool and according to Spike you ‘couldn’t do a thing with it’. No tricks. Whoever the skater was he wouldn’t be hanging out with kids at the half-pipes in the park. Motorized skateboards were for nerds and dweebs. For loners. Spike had in fact suggested that anyone using one might be more interested in fiddling with small engines than skating. Someone with engineering skills.

While he fought his way back towards the centre through lunchtime traffic the rain began to fall more slowly and then abruptly stopped as the sun broke through the clouds. After weeks of relentless rain and monochrome dreariness the brightness of the light seemed Mediterranean in its intensity. Colour returned to the city and patches of blue sky were reflected in the long kerbside puddles. All this light made McLusky hungry.

The Albany Road canteen served a type of food specially designed to minimize the chances of police officers enjoying their pensions for too long. The chip-fat and wrinkly-sausage smells that pervaded the neon-lit basement cavern reminded him of school dinners, as did the hubbub of voices albeit an octave or two lower now. Standing in the queue behind a young constable with unusual BO he surreptitiously surveyed the room, conscious that as the new kid on the block some diners would be checking him over. He spotted DI Fairfield sitting by herself and decided to join her. Things had been so hectic there had never been time to get really acquainted.

When it was his turn there was little left to choose from in the beige-and-brown section under the heat lamps. Something called ‘cauliflower bake’ looked the least lethal. As he carried his food on a tray in the direction of Kat Fairfield the DI looked up. Spotting him she drained her glass of water and, leaving her tray on the table, made for the exit on a tortuous route specially chosen to avoid him.