Four Below

by Peter Helton

  Not in your league, that, anyway. Not on your own, either, not with one eye and one ball and an old motor that stuck out like a sore thumb. Mind you, he always made sure he looked after the van, and there was nothing the rozzers could pull him over for. Tax, MOT, insurance, all the paperwork. No point in drawing attention to yourself. Clean driver’s licence, too. As for housebreaking, it was the lower-middle ground you wanted, the up-and-coming, upwardly mobile, what they used to call yuppies. Thirty-something couples just starting out together, twenty-five grand a year each, first house. Lots of money for stuff and gadgets to plonk on every surface but not enough for a five ninety-nine window lock. Lava lamps. Digital photo frames. They’re the ones. Hard-working morons. Not a care. Pick one. Clean them out. All insured. Come back three months later and lift all the brand-new replacements. Nine out of ten still hadn’t fitted any security, even then. Idiots. He was the lightning that struck twice. Of course most of the junk people had in their houses was worth next to nothing. All the usual stuff was now so cheap to buy in the first place that it wasn’t really worth pinching. You hardly got a thing for it, especially if you used a fence. After all, why spend a hundred and fifty on a netbook you know is probably stolen when you can get a new one for two-twenty? With a year’s guarantee?

  But at last he had struck it lucky; not a bad haul, this. In fact it was so good he had made two trips to the van, breaking his iron rule not to get Aladdined. Getting greedy and hanging around too long gave people time to notice you, to get on the blower and arrange nasty surprises. But it had been worth it. Not a load of catalogue showroom rubbish this time. Top-of-the-range equipment, this. Professional gear, all photography stuff. Two digital SLR cameras, long lenses, two printers – he’d lifted the bigger one – all the chargers and a laptop. State-of-the-art laptop. Top spec, latest model. Must have cost a fortune. He flicked on the ultraviolet bulb. Not one item was security-marked.

  He used to quite enjoy taking pictures. Never had a decent camera, though, just happy-snappy things. Send the pics off to Prontoprint and get them back a week later. Most of them went straight in the bin, but some were good. Some were priceless. No idea where they’d got to. Lost in one of the endless moves or disappeared when his last girlfriend ran off. Took a few good ones of her. He had quite an eye for taking photographs. Let’s hope it wasn’t the eye he’d lost. Ha. First eye joke that made him smile, good one. Might take a bit longer for the first ball joke, of course. He was tempted to keep one of the cameras. And the printer. But perhaps not the laptop. Too expensive, he could never explain that away. Flog it, then buy a cheap one and keep the receipt. That’d unnerve the rozzers if they came calling. A receipt.

  Of course, before you could sell a knocked-off computer you had to wipe everything on it or whoever bought it in a pub car park wouldn’t be able to pretend that he didn’t know it was nicked. A shame with this one, because the pictures on it were fantastic. Really good. You could tell the last owner knew what they were doing. Folder after folder. This lot, for instance, the pictures in the woods in autumn. Taken at the crack of dawn or else just as it got dark. Some of the shots were amazing. Mind you, some of the pics had a weird mob in them; the bunch this photographer hung out with didn’t half look nerdy. All with little cameras. One of them in a wheelchair, even. How did they get him into the woods? But the pics without people in them, the atmospheric ones, he’d keep some of them. These ones with the lights in the trees looked spooky, like from a fantasy movie. And the pictures had so many pixels you could probably have them blown up big as posters. And you could zoom right in on the spooky lights … and keep zooming in … and …

  It was difficult to believe what he was seeing. His mouth had gone dry and his heart was hammering. His palms were sweaty. And this was just a picture of the bastards. It must have been taken with a long lens. Or did he mean long exposure? The big man must have stood still, because he wasn’t blurred at all. Neither was the car. The very Merc he sometimes used to drive him around in when he was drunk, he was certain. But the figure with the bag over his head was a bit out of focus, and so was Ilkin. Though you’d recognize him if you knew it was him. He was hard to forget. However much you’d like to.

  He got up and started pacing the room, leaving the image on the screen. How was it possible that he had found this very picture? Or was it the other way around? Had the picture found him? Whoever took this picture couldn’t have known what they were photographing. The big man couldn’t have known, or this photographer would already be six foot under. What he needed now was a drink. And time to think. This could be it, his one chance of revenge. This picture could be his ticket. He would have to move house first, of course, no question about it. The big man would pay a lot to keep this picture out of the papers. Of course he would also happily have him killed – slowly – by Ilkin while he watched from the comfort of his car.

  Chapter Two

  ‘This could turn out to be complete nonsense, of course. Bound to, in fact.’ McLusky was possessed of a profound cynicism where the observational skills of the public were concerned. ‘Once we’re across the bridge, you’ll have to give me directions.’

  DS Austin made himself taller in the passenger seat and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the river below. ‘Okay, will do. It’s a great view from up here.’

  McLusky, who didn’t like heights much, gave an all-purpose grunt and kept his eyes to the front as they crossed the Clifton suspension bridge going west. ‘Someone moves their dustbins out of alignment and we get a detailed description of the perpetrator, but you can carry a headless corpse through town and no one sees a thing. I can guarantee it.’

  ‘The woman was quite adamant. A fox with half a human face in his jaws. Or words to that effect.’

  ‘Half a cheese sandwich, more like.’

  ‘She was walking her dog early this morning. Turn right when you’re past the sports club.’

  ‘Where would we be without dog-walkers?’

  ‘Back at the nick in a warm office? No offence, it’s a stylish car and all that, but the heating is pathetic.’

  McLusky knew Austin was right. The old Mazda had been an impulse buy, and the longer he drove it, the more faults showed up. Terrible suspension was one of them. A feeble heater another. But he liked it and felt defensive about it. ‘It gets warm eventually.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

  McLusky turned on to what looked like a forester’s track into the bleak woods they had been skirting for a while. ‘What is this place, anyway?’

  ‘Leigh Woods. Have you not been here before?’

  ‘I’m not the outdoorsy type. And look at it, why would anyone?’

  ‘Because, it’s great in summer, lots of people come here. It’s quite big, runs all the way back to the gorge. Streams, ponds …’

  The afternoon seemed set to become even gloomier. ‘Ponds, Jane?’ DS James Austin was broad, darkly hairy, with an Edinburgh accent, so naturally everyone called him Jane. If the DS minded, he never let on. ‘Not bleedin’ ponds in November, Jane.’

  ‘Yes, okay, it’ll be a bloody nightmare place to search.’ For someone. It wasn’t as if they were personally required to dive into ponds and lakes. Ahead, two vehicles, one a patrol car, came into view, parked across and beside the track. ‘This should be it.’

  McLusky pulled on to the soft verge beside the patrol car. The woman who had made the call stood by her silver hatchback. She was in her fifties and sensibly dressed in thick boots, padded jacket, hat and gloves. Very sensibly, thought McLusky, whose leather jacket wasn’t putting up much of a fight against the cold. Further along, among the stark and practically leafless trees, two police constables in high-vis jackets used sticks to poke half-heartedly at the wet leaf litter. Winter mist hung in the woods, cutting visibility to less than a hundred yards. All around them the place dripped with icy moisture. McLusky acknowledged the civilian with a nod, turned up his collar and waited for one of the constables, who was mak
ing his way towards him.

  DS Austin approached the woman. ‘Are you the lady who called us?’

  ‘I am. You must be Inspector McLusky, I was told to expect you.’

  ‘Erm, no. I’m Detective Sergeant Austin; that’s DI McLusky over there.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I heard the Scottish accent and just assumed …’

  ‘The inspector will be with you shortly. I think he first wants a word with the constable.’

  McLusky did. It was PC Pym. He was a slim six foot four and had a habit of folding himself at the hip so as not to tower over superior officers. ‘What have we got, Pym?’

  ‘Well, erm …’ The PC looked across to the woman. McLusky walked them away from the cars to get completely out of earshot. ‘The lady reported seeing a fox carrying what she believed to be human remains, sir.’

  ‘Part of a face, is that right?’

  ‘Imagination may play a part here, no disrespect to the lady. Yes, what she is quite sure about, she says, is flesh, hair and what looked to her like a human ear.’

  ‘Bits of rabbit?’

  ‘That may account for the hair, but what about the ear? Rabbit ears don’t look much like ours.’

  McLusky shrugged heavily. Cold air crept under his jacket as he did so. ‘I don’t know. Rabbit and mushroom, then.’

  ‘Rabbit marengo,’ Pym said helpfully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. A rabbit dish. My mother used to cook it. It’s got mushrooms in it.’

  ‘Please don’t mention food, Pym. Whatever it was they put in my lunch refuses to go quietly. Right, let’s have a quick chat with that woman. I don’t suppose you saw any foxes’ lairs, if that’s what they have?’

  ‘Holes, I think, is what they have. Not a one. Aren’t they nocturnal, though?’

  McLusky waved his hand as he walked away. ‘Carry on here for a bit, anyway.’

  Back at the cars, he introduced himself to the woman. On the other side, Austin was walking between the trees, eyes down.

  ‘I did tell your colleague the fox went that way.’ She pointed irritably in the opposite direction.

  ‘How long ago did you see the fox?’

  ‘This morning, as I said. About nine thirty. I was walking my dog when I saw it running. Ziggy must have startled him. He ran after him but lost him, predictably. It took me half an hour to get Ziggy to come back to me, he was so excited.’

  ‘And the fox was carrying human remains?’

  An impatient intake of breath. ‘How often do I have to repeat it? Yes. I clearly saw a human ear. There were bits of hair and flesh. It was quite … well, I shouldn’t say disgusting; quite shocking, I suppose.’

  ‘And naturally you reported it straight away?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t. I went home. I reported it later.’

  McLusky nodded. ‘You waited till the afternoon.’

  ‘I only saw it for the briefest of moments. And it was such a strange thing to have seen. I wanted to be clear in my mind that I really had seen it. And then I decided. Not many things look like human ears. Do they, Inspector?’

  McLusky squinted into the mist. Not many things a fox would show an interest in. ‘We’ll look into it. We have your details, in case we need to speak to you again.’

  ‘I can go, then?’

  ‘Mm? Yes. Yes, thanks, you did the right thing.’

  ‘I know, Inspector.’

  McLusky was already walking away. ‘We’ll let you know if we find anything.’

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, the woman wiped condensation from the windscreen with the back of her glove. She wouldn’t be holding her breath on hearing from them again. And she wouldn’t be surprised if they got themselves lost in there; they all looked like they’d never actually seen a tree before, the way they were behaving. You reported a murder and they sent four bobbies up to search Leigh Woods. And they didn’t even have the sense to bring a dog.

  McLusky hurried to join PC Pym before he disappeared completely into the mist. His colleague was already barely visible between the slick boles of ash trees to the north.

  ‘What was your impression of the witness, sir?’

  ‘Not easily flustered. If she says she saw an ear, then perhaps that’s what she did see.’ He kicked at the leaf litter. It had to be centuries deep. Things had lived and died in this place since the last ice age. It felt like the next one was on its way. Not a bad place to die, probably. If it was your time, of course. Not if some other bastard decided it was. And as long as it wasn’t November.

  Austin crossed the track and came over to join them. ‘I thought there were two of you,’ he said to Pym.

  Pym looked around. The mist was turning to fog; there was no sign of his colleague. He cupped his gloved hands round his mouth and called, ‘Becky? You fallen down a hole yet?’ Almost immediately, the form of PC Becks appeared from the mist, making his way back towards them. ‘Now you see him, now you don’t,’ Pym said. ‘So much for high-vis jackets. We’ll have to tie ourselves together with string. The fog’s getting worse and it’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘Are we searching the area, then?’ Austin asked.

  McLusky nodded heavily. ‘Yes, we’ll do a bloody search. But first: do you have a cigarette on you, DS Austin?’

  ‘I gave up, don’t you remember?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You mean it would help my promotional prospects if I carried cigarettes of a certain brand at all times?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  McLusky turned to Pym, who shook his head. ‘Don’t smoke. But sir, if we are to do a real search, we’ll need a lot more bodies up here.’

  McLusky wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Would you care to rephrase that, PC Pym?’

  Sisyphus, that was it, she remembered the name now. It wasn’t a Bible story at all, silly, it was a naughty Greek man who was condemned to push a boulder up a hill and then it rolled off again and he’d push it up again and so on for ever. The Greek myth of Sisyphus this was like, only was Polish myth of Anastazja. You push the trolley first along one floor, then next floor, then other floor again. Every day, a job without happy ending, there was always more where that came from. Only, if you push cleaning trolley through shopping centre you become invisible also. The landlady says: with name like Anastazja you should be on stage. What can invisible woman do on a stage? Play the ghost perhaps. Excuse me. Excuse me was what she said mostly all day because of course, when you are invisible woman, people don’t know to get out of your ways. Excuse me. English people do not notice other people, only notice shopping. Excuse me while I clean up vomit from teenager drunk in middle of day. Of course at night the whole shopping centre was made clean with machine. A man with machine. But you cannot clean toilets with machine. For toilets we use Polish woman. Excuse me while I mop up orange soft drink your child spills on floor because he wants attention but you are too busy making eyes at things in shops windows. The English have a saying: where there is muck, there is brass. Well, is completely wrong. Where there is muck there is Polish woman with mop. Cleaning it up.

  ‘And another thing …’ Superintendent Denkhaus signalled McLusky to sit down while speaking forcefully down the phone to a civilian IT technician who hadn’t got a word in for the last five minutes. Denkhaus even managed the ghost of a smile to go with his nod, without letting up on the tirade he was pouring down the receiver. That was part of management skills, McLusky thought, pretending anger you didn’t feel, beaming with enthusiasm at boring stuff, smiling encouragingly at people while thinking of other matters. ‘… for the past two weeks under the heading “Offenders Brought to Justice” there was not a single example posted.’ Denkhaus began lifting his coffee cup but set it back down on its saucer with dangerous emphasis. ‘I know, but what’s that got to do with it? It makes us look like we never get any bloody convictions at all! The public don’t fart about on our website for information; they’re just looking for reassurance.’

  McLusky looked stealthily at t
he superintendent’s coffee tray for evidence of anything skinny. He’d been warned more than once that Denkhaus, who carried at least four stone of spare weight, turned ogre as soon as he tried to give up sugar. A reassuring sugar bowl sat next to the little jug of cream on the tray, together with a small saucer displaying telltale signs of recent biscuit consumption. That was as far as indulgence went in this room, he noted. Not only was the desk devoid of any clutter; the rest of the office was as functional as could be contrived. Not a picture, plant pot or ornament softened the starkness of the room, one wall of which was taken up entirely with a large-scale map of the city.

  ‘Public confidence is the watchword here, as ever,’ Denkhaus continued. ‘From now on I want at least four mugs on that page for our force area at all times … Well I don’t care if you put your own picture up as long as it makes us look good to civilians browsing the site. If we told them what really went on, they’d soon start throwing rocks at us.’ Denkhaus hung up without bothering with formalities.

  ‘They’re doing that already, sir,’ McLusky offered.

  ‘They’re doing what?’

  ‘Throwing rocks at us. When we closed down the crack house in Knowle West last Monday, a rock and a bottle were thrown at officers, just for doing their job.’

  ‘By some local yobs. Not by your average citizen, not yet, and that’s why public relations is half the battle. A reduction in the public’s perception of crime is as important as reduction in crime itself. No point in eradicating crime if people are still frightened in their beds.’

  ‘A bobby on every street corner.’

  ‘Quite. It would only take an extra million officers. As it is, cuts are now inevitable. Enough.’ Denkhaus waved away the distraction. There was no point in discussing issues like these with junior officers. ‘How reliable is your witness?’

  ‘Hard to say, but she was no airhead and was quite sure of herself. She did take her time reporting it, though. She waited several hours before making up her mind that she had in fact seen human remains being carried around by a fox. Now she’s adamant.’