by Peter Helton
‘Where’s the cafe?’
‘Upstairs next to the auditorium.’
Bare brick walls, blond wood tables, medieval music. Three bar staff oversaw a practically empty room, probably waiting for the interval crush. He registered with a sigh that the only thing on draught was lager and ordered a bottle of Guinness, then corrected himself. ‘Make it two.’ He’d just remembered how small those bottles were, they got smaller too as he got older. ‘What time’s the interval?’
The barman checked his watch, pulled a face. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Will there be a crush?’
‘Oh yes, stand well back.’
Only two of the tables were occupied, by couples talking in low voices, not noticing him. McLusky took a table as far away from the bar as possible from where he could still keep an eye on the door, and emptied the first bottle without bothering to pour it, then took more time over the second one. He was relieved to see that one of the men at the tables was also wearing jeans and he relaxed a little. Laura had been keen on the theatre, though he could only remember having gone with her twice. He had enjoyed it, but it all seemed a bit of an effort, mainly the dressing-up part. This was okay.
There was no mistaking the moment the interval started. A wave of voices and footsteps approached and poured through the door, breaking against the bar. Dr Louise Rennie was among the first. She received instant attention from the barman and signalled to McLusky that she’d get him another drink, seemingly taking his presence here for granted.
‘I didn’t get any messages.’ She added another bottle of Guinness to his collection and took a sip of her orange juice.
‘I’m sorry. I called the uni. They said they’d pass it on.’
‘I’m sure I’ll find a note in my pigeonhole tomorrow. Today’s my day off. It really doesn’t matter. It’s not a good production and I would have been embarrassed having dragged you out to see it. Were you busy catching the bench bomber?’
‘Is that really what people are calling him?’
‘It’s what they call him in the papers. Why, what do you call him?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Though I can imagine. Can you talk about it? I mean the case.’
‘Some of it.’
‘Is the new explosion, the poor woman with the powder compact, is that related? Is it the same guy who did that?’
‘I think so, though so far there’s no evidence to support that theory. It just seems unlikely that two people in the same city are planting bombs at the same time. Forensics may be able to confirm that it’s the same perpetrator but I’m pretty certain anyway.’
‘But the bombs were very different. That’s what the papers said, anyway.’
‘They were. It was a different type of explosion. The bomb was much smaller, obviously. And it didn’t have a timer, it was set off when the compact was opened.’
‘So the first one was a time bomb? That wasn’t in the papers.’
‘Keep it to yourself. I shouldn’t have told you that. We need to keep back details so we can weed out the cranks and attention seekers claiming responsibility. We’ve already had several cheerful souls on the phone.’
‘But how did the woman get hold of it? Was it her own compact that someone filled with explosives?’
McLusky hesitated. ‘That’s … one of the things I can’t tell you.’
Louise Rennie looked away over his shoulder at nothing, pondering the answer. ‘I see the implications, I think. If it wasn’t hers then … Things could get interesting.’
McLusky went through a series of helpless facial expressions that signalled, ‘Yes, you’re right, but I’m not saying anything.’
‘And the bomb was much, much smaller. Was it the same type of explosive?’
‘There’s no word yet. But what did the most damage to the victim was the tongue of flame that shot from the device. It set her face on fire.’
‘That might not have been the intention. It might just not have worked properly.’
‘That’s always possible.’ This was like still being at work, only with the addition of beer and beauty.
They both reached for their glasses and drank. ‘What are you suddenly smiling about, inspector?’
‘Well, doctor, I was thinking that this is a most peculiar topic of conversation for a date.’
Rennie sat back in her chair. ‘A date? Is that what this is?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t mean …’
‘It was meant to be a visit to the theatre, which has now turned into a drink, or in your case, three drinks.’
Why had he said that? He didn’t even like the word ‘date’. Nobody ‘dated’ in Britain. McLusky searched her face for signs of annoyance but found instead what he hoped was an ironic sternness. She wasn’t wearing her glasses but peered at him over their rims anyway.
‘Sorry, it’s not really what I meant. I was just wondering if any of the other couples at their tables are talking about bombs and mutilation.’
‘The other couples? You can obviously see us as a couple, then?’
‘Jesus, one has to choose one’s words carefully around you.’
‘I’m a pedant, inspector. Take no notice.’
McLusky knew that ‘take no notice’ without exception meant ‘please note’. A change of subject might help. ‘So, how’s the play? Rubbish, you said? Thanks for the invitation, by the way. That was quite unexpected.’ She waved it away. ‘I had a spare ticket.’
‘And you asked everyone else but no one could make it?’
‘Well, no, it wasn’t quite like that. I just thought you’re new in town, probably don’t know many people yet …’
‘That was kind of you. I’m afraid I came straight from work, I’m not dressed for the occasion.’
‘Neither am I, really. The Tobacco Factory isn’t that kind of theatre, you wear whatever you feel like.’
Rennie wore a simple grey knee-length dress, matching shoes and handbag. It reminded him of the sixties. No jewellery apart from pearl ear studs, yet she looked fit for the catwalk. Her eyes weren’t like Laura’s at all, he decided. ‘So, are you going to bring me up to speed about the play?’
‘Oh, stuff the play, you’ll never get into it now and I’m not fussed about it. I thought we could go and eat something.’
‘There’s a bistro here, I saw.’
‘It’s a bit too studenty here for me. I didn’t book anywhere but I know one or two places where we might get a table.’
He tried not to let his relief show. ‘Okay, if you’re sure about the play. I’m quite hungry, now you mention it.’
‘So am I. We’ll finish our drinks and go.’
‘Good. So the interrogation starts here. Have you always lived here?’
‘Me? God no …’
The conversation flowed easily, mainly because Rennie talked freely and happily about herself. She gave him her potted autobiography from her peripatetic childhood when the family followed her father from failed venture to failed venture, her travels, her eventual studies at Liverpool and her subsequent teaching posts. They both had a stint in Southampton in common, she teaching chemistry, he on the force.
As they left the Factory they found the rain had stopped. McLusky offered Rennie a cigarette.
‘No thanks, I’m a chemist, I know what’s in it. But you go ahead.’
He lit one for himself with a shiny silver lighter he found in a pocket of his leather jacket and didn’t remember owning. It was satisfyingly heavy. They were walking towards Rennie’s blue Toyota when his mobile rang. In a city full of strangers this could only mean bad news.
It was DS Austin. ‘At last. Your airwave isn’t turned on or something and your mobile was saying you were unavailable.’
McLusky’s mental image of his airwave radio lying at home next to the cooker made him swallow hard. ‘No signal, I guess.’
‘Your predictions are coming true. Another bomb, by the looks of it. The victim is male. Blew up inside hi
s car.’
‘Is the victim alive?’ McLusky made an apologetic gesture to Rennie who shrugged her shoulders.
‘He was still alive when the paramedics got there but he died at the scene. It’s in Knowle West.’ Austin gave the address.
‘Hang on a second.’ He fumbled about in his pockets.
Rennie had anticipated it and handed him a folded envelope from her handbag. She watched him note down the address with a heavy, brushed-steel pen. The man had a certain style, she had noticed it before, no plastic biros or disposable lighters for him. He looked good in a leather jacket, too. The inspector probably drove a good car and owned solid, quality furniture, he seemed that kind of a man.
McLusky folded his mobile. ‘Something’s come up. I’m afraid I have to go and find a cab somewhere. I came without my car.’
‘I’ll drive you there, much quicker.’ She released the central locking then went to the back of the car and squatted down low, inspecting the tail pipe.
‘What on earth are you doing? You’re not looking for bombs, are you?’
Rennie straightened up. ‘No. Just making sure it’s clear. It’s the latest craze, it seems, blocking the exhaust pipes of cars. It was my turn a couple of days ago. Car wouldn’t start and I ended up having it towed to a garage. It took them half a day to find a rotten apple in the exhaust pipe.’
As Rennie drove off McLusky spotted a man standing alone beside the entrance of the building, watching. ‘Isn’t that …?’ Rennie drove off fast and he lost sight of the figure.
‘Isn’t that what?’
‘The … the bloke. The chap who was at the laboratory when I came up to ask your advice. I thought I just saw him by the theatre.’
‘What, Harmer? Most unlikely. I don’t think Steven even knows what goes on inside a theatre.’
‘What is he, your assistant?’
‘Yes, well, not just mine. He’s a lab technician. Am I driving you to the scene of a murder?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Another bomb? You might as well tell me, it’ll be in the paper tomorrow, save me the expense.’
‘I was going to. Yes, another explosion. That’s all I know, really. A man died.’
‘That then rather looks like a bombing campaign, doesn’t it?’
‘If it turns out to be our man again, yes.’
‘But what’s he campaigning for?’
‘That’s a good question.’
‘You haven’t received any demands, then, something else you can’t tell me?’
‘No, nothing at all.’
Rennie was driving them south, confident of where she was going, hardly referring to her sat nav. To him all this looked new, alien, yet somehow universal. A cityscape of suburbs, becoming poorer and more depressing the further they went. Even in sunshine, without sodium-lit rain, this place would look drab and dispiriting. Here and there a building site hinted at recovery, yet mainly what they drove past were drab streets full of cars that looked dumped rather than parked; a boarded-up house, a playground full of rubbish, a van without wheels.
Knowle West. McLusky recognized it instantly, though he had never been here. It was Costcutter Country, and markedly different from the other Bristol west of the river. Here problem neighbourhoods, high unemployment, failing estates and failing schools had created a ripe market for hard drugs and the crime they spawned. Gangs of children, often led by young adults, defended their imagined turf and were responsible for an impressive percentage of the crime, knifings and shootings in the city.
Rents here were lower, yet even hard-up students shunned the area, not being keen on too much reality all at once. Besides, it was too far from the university, from the clubs and the gigs. Even pubs were failing here as more and more people stayed in to drink supermarket booze and watch TV in the imaginary safety of their homes.
Judging by the number of drinkers standing outside its doors the George and Dragon was bucking the trend. The area around Frank Dudden’s car had been completely sealed off and the road junction was closed. Despite the persistent drizzle many of the neighbourhood’s residents had deserted the fantasy world of television and computer games for the arc-lit reality of death on their own streets and formed a noisy cordon beyond the police tape. Many had brought drinks, bicycles, babies and camcorders. Pictures and videos were being taken on mobile phones.
On the other side of the tape police cars, Forensics vehicles, ambulance, undertaker’s van, technicians’ cars and Denkhaus’s Land Rover were already there. Everyone had crammed their vehicles across the junction and on to a triangle of grass which they soon realized was the neighbourhood’s dog toilet, the pub’s vomit bucket and a used-needle repository.
‘Looks like you’re the last to arrive, inspector.’ There hadn’t even been time to move to first names.
‘Looks like it, doctor.’
‘So this is what policemen’s wives can expect, is it?’ She checked her watch. ‘Forty-seven minutes, not much of a night out.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s not always like this, honestly. Thanks for the lift. Perhaps we could …’
‘Yes, inspector. Next time I have fifty minutes to fill I might call on you again.’
‘I look forward to it.’
But don’t hold your breath. ‘Good luck, inspector.’
Watching her drive off McLusky was assailed by a sudden feeling of loss that cut him raw across his chest. He ducked under the police tape and stood in the shadows between the police vans and lit another cigarette. This is what policemen’s wives can expect. He took a deep drag on his cigarette then walked coughing towards the arc lights at the street corner. It was all policemen’s wives’ husbands could expect.
DS Austin had spotted him and lifted a finger in greeting but McLusky steered a course towards Superintendent Denkhaus who was talking with a sharp-suited man standing close to a metal briefcase and holding aloft a black umbrella. The two were shaking hands as he got there. ‘Ah, glad you could join us at last. You might try keeping your airwave turned on if you want to head this investigation.’ He turned to the umbrella’d man. ‘This is DI McLusky, new to our troubled parish. Dr Coulthart, Home Office Pathologist.’
Coulthart was in his late fifties, wore rimless spectacles and had a suspiciously full head of dark hair. He seemed to look through McLusky. No offer to shake hands was forthcoming. Instead the pathologist gave a curt nod. ‘Inspector.’ He picked up his briefcase and turned away. ‘Good luck, Rob. I think you’ll need it.’
Denkhaus grunted at his retreating shape. Coulthart had taken his umbrella with him, leaving the superintendent standing in the incessant drizzle. He had come without his hat and was bristling with discomfort and irritation. If DCI Gaunt hadn’t been in Spain trying to assist in the arrest of that bastard DI Pearce, he wouldn’t now be standing in the sodding rain. Again. He gripped McLusky’s shoulder hard. ‘It was only a matter of time before someone got killed. This shit always escalates, by accident or design. This one may have got killed by accident but we can’t count on it.’ He released him and jerked his head towards the wreck of the car at the street corner. A large enough tent had at last been found and crime scene technicians were erecting it around the vehicle. ‘You go get a good eyeful, I’ve seen enough. It’s all yours, detective inspector.’
McLusky stood in the rain and gave the scene time to sink in. Glass and bits of fittings from the car were lying in a wide orbit. Technicians and Forensics were busy all around the area, closely watched by the press and neighbourhood. TV had arrived and bribed their way into the upstairs bedrooms of nearby houses to get a better view. Austin was talking to one of the white-suited technicians, himself still wearing overshoes and latex gloves. Uniform were everywhere.
The four doors of the victim’s car were wide open now. Having donned protective gear himself McLusky approached it from the driver’s side. Everything he saw was dark red, thoroughly sprayed with blood from the explosive dismemberment of the victim. The car’s inter
ior felt like the inside of a giant mouth with broken teeth and a half-chewed man on its tongue. Paramedics had got some dressings on to the victim in a vain effort to stop the bleeding and had managed to get a drip into his arm before he died. The dressings were so soaked in blood it was difficult to tell them apart from the charred clothes and the stained upholstery. The smells were of blood, faeces, urine and burnt flesh mingled with the aroma of spent gunpowder. The rain drummed harder on the polypropylene sky above. He looked closely at the dead man’s grey face, smeared with his blood. The eyes were closed, the mouth wide open, showing much dental work. He knew little could be gained by this. There wasn’t much he could glean from this carnage that the finely detailed reports he would soon receive couldn’t tell him. Yet something compelled him to absorb fully the aftermath of what had occurred here. Somehow he felt more of an obligation to engage with this filthy corpse of an out-of-shape middle-aged man than he had felt towards the survivors of the first two blasts. He owed this man more than the others.
Austin had appeared behind him. He had taken one look at the carnage and since then studiously avoided the corpse. He felt guilty now, seeing what time the inspector took. But as far as he could tell, what had happened here was quite obvious.
Paramedics had crawled all over the front and back of the car, their uniforms more red than green when they finally gave up, no doubt giving Forensics a headache. They had found the shredded remains of a can of lager that had contained the device. The smell was gross. What was Liam studying so closely? ‘Booby-trapped beer can. Found anything else?’
McLusky broke off his vigil. Failure is what he had seen. The picture of the dead man had imprinted itself on his retina. Perhaps they should allow the press in, allow the TV cameras close and make them transmit this on the news in fine detail. Could the bomber really have wanted this? Would the bomber look at this and think he had done well? Would he be shocked? Or was he too weird, too far gone to care? Perhaps it was a stupid question. People had been blowing each other up quite happily ever since explosives were invented. ‘Has Denkhaus named a crime scene coordinator?’