by Peter Helton
‘I doubt that very much.’
His colleague found this hilarious, but the first man was not so happy. He muttered something to the effect that she was probably a dyke. For once in his life, Fairfield thought, he was probably right, though her relationship record with women was every bit as fraught as that with men. Was there a third thing she had missed? She had no time to pursue the thought as at that moment the council van arrived. She met up with the young council worker and his bolt cutter by the lamp post.
‘Are you the police officer I’m meeting?’ he asked.
Police officer, one of the workmen mimed to the other.
‘Yes, just cut the chain for me and I’ll take it away.’
The workmen stood back in head-scratching silence while the man cut the bicycle chain with ease and Fairfield, wearing latex gloves, took it away to her car and stowed it in the boot. She knew it would have countless prints on it anyway, but she had not wanted to add her own. She threw the gloves after it and slammed the boot shut, then lit a small cigar, blew a satisfying cloud of smoke towards the blue sky and walked away past the staring workers. ‘As you were, chaps.’
Naturally, the area around the deposition site had been searched for possible places where Bethany might have met her death, but without a result. Since she could have been killed anywhere in the city before being dropped off the flyover, not a lot of man hours had been allocated to it. She called Sorbie and told him to drop everything and come and join her. Sorbie, who knew the area his superior was talking about, was less than enthusiastic, but Fairfield insisted. Yes, it would make sense to go back to Denkhaus and ask for a new search in the light of the new find, but first they would have to establish that the bicycle frame had really belonged to the victim. Personally, she had no doubt about it – after all, how many pink adult-sized bicycles could there be in this town? – but it would take time and Fairfield had never felt more impatient to get a result, to conclude an investigation successfully. And she felt lucky as she stood in the sunshine, wearing black from head to toe, light on her feet in her trainers despite the weight of the airwave radio in her shoulder bag; no, even the weight of the radio felt good to her today. With the press of one button she could summon a small army of officers to her side, armed to the teeth if necessary. She was walking on the other side of an invisible but definite divide: she was not a civilian. Kat Fairfield was walking on the right side of the tracks wherever she walked, and right now the sun shone on it.
Sorbie made good time and joined her soon after she had flicked the butt of her small cigar on to a patch of concrete rubble. Sorbie noted the transformation in Fairfield’s mood but did not share it as he took in his surroundings with a look of distaste. He knew every city had places like this, needed places like this, but he would rather spend his time sitting behind his computer, no more than ten feet away from the tea kettle. He already felt too hot in the sun and now the inspector suggested they themselves should look for the place of Bethany Hall’s electrocution. This wasn’t intelligence work; it was foot slog. That’s what uniform were for.
None of it, however – not even this drab and rundown area of Bristol – could depress Fairfield today. She crossed strips of concrete, passed rows of parked articulated trucks, climbed through the odd no-man’s-land created between car parks, streets and buildings. ‘This is exactly the type of place where a young sculpture student would expect to strike gold,’ she informed Sorbie, who wrinkled his nose at the smell of dog’s piss and nests of wind-blown fast-food litter. They found themselves at the fringes of the industrial units, a mix of recent and very old developments. Some of the older flat-roofed buildings were clearly waiting for demolition, but there were still signs of life even here. At the end of a row of closed-up units, a garage was still doing business. The car repair shop did not attract the glamorous end of automotive failures; in fact, most of the cars outside and inside the garage looked more than ten years old. At least they were in business, and the mood of the mechanic at whom they waved their ID seemed unaffected by the realization that he was in the unexpected company of CID officers. He was either a good actor or had nothing to hide or – in DS Sorbie’s opinion – had whatever he did have to hide well hidden.
‘Pink?’ the mechanic echoed Fairfield’s question. ‘Nah, I’d have remembered that. Is that the girl who jumped off the bridge, you mean?’
Fairfield gave Sorbie a pointed look. ‘We don’t believe she jumped.’
‘And you think she came through here? On her bike?’
‘Or on foot. She was very colourfully dressed and had her hair dyed all sorts of colours, too.’
He shook his head again. ‘I’d have remembered that.’
Sorbie briefly stuck his head under the raised bonnet of the car the man had been working on, as though he understood car mechanics, and emerged with a knowing look. ‘What about your colleague back there?’ Behind a scratched and grimy Perspex window sat a middle-aged sandy-haired man who had been talking animatedly on the phone and just then slammed the receiver on to the cradle.
‘That’s Terry, my boss; you can ask him.’
Terry came steaming out of his cubbyhole office. ‘Bloody useless w—’ He swallowed the expletive when he saw Fairfield. She repeated her question.
The man, while talking to Fairfield, kept one eye on Sorbie who was wandering about the place. ‘No, not seen her. Or anyone on a bicycle, not for ages. Here, you wanna investigate summat criminal, investigate the bloody leccy company. They sent us an outrageous bill – it’s nearly twice what it should be. I just told them there’s no way we used that much – we could have tig-welded the QE2 with that – but the bastards aren’t having any of it.’
‘Seen anything unusual in the area recently? Anyone who shouldn’t be here?’
He shrugged. ‘None of us should be here – look at this dump. But finding new premises is a nightmare. I might pack it in for good if it goes on like this.’
Sorbie returned from his wanderings. ‘All these motors are legit, are they?’
‘I thought you was here for the girl on the bicycle.’
‘We are,’ Fairfield assured him and turned away. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Sorbie made a show of reluctance, peering into car windows as though he were an expert on car crime, before joining Fairfield in the sunshine.
‘Now, if I were a sculpture student and needed a place to plonk my stuff, I’d try those buildings over there.’ She indicated three low, red-brick industrial units that once could have housed anything from potteries to metalworks. The one furthest from them had a squat round chimney, some thirty feet high.
‘What, the ones with “Keep Out” and “Unsafe Structure” plastered all over them? If you were an idiot sort of student, yes.’
Fairfield had found a rent in the chicken-wire fence that surrounded the buildings and the rubble-strewn areas between them.
‘We’re not, are we?’ Sorbie complained.
His superior had already squeezed through the gap and was picking her way through broken bricks and other debris towards the closest building. There were more signs telling potential trespassers to keep out and even warning stickers that the place was patrolled by apparently fearsome Alsatians, if the drawings of a snarling dog could be believed. Sorbie’s shirt snagged on a protruding piece of wire and he scratched his forearm freeing himself. He swore as he followed the inspector who was already probing doors and boarded-up windows. ‘If you want the damn place searched, why not get the foot soldiers in and wait in the car, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Are you saying something, Jack?’
‘I scratched my arm on some wire.’
‘Will you make an injury claim for compensation?’
‘It could go septic.’
‘See if any of the boarded-up windows have loose panels. Squatters sometimes loosen them and then put them back in place afterwards to make it look like no one’s at home.’
They inspected the entire building, walking in opposi
te directions. Sorbie gave every chipboard panel a perfunctory tug and met with his superior at the far corner. ‘We’ll try the other two; won’t take us long.’
There was plenty of evidence that the place had long been used as a dumping ground before it had been surrounded by wire fencing: the usual supermarket trolleys far from home, mouldering mattresses, their rusty springs protruding from the ticking, a couple of burnt-out scooters and not a few car parts, possibly the overflow from the garage. The second building also appeared secure.
‘It’s that one.’ Fairfield pointed a confident finger at the grimy structure. She contemplated the building for a moment, wondering why she was so sure. Then she noticed that some of the rubble had been moved aside to create the semblance of a path leading up to the wooden double doors on the narrow side of the building they were facing. It was not methodical, but it looked as if someone had kicked aside a few bricks here, a lump of concrete there. It was faint but it looked like a path to her. There was a different smell around here too. The breeze was wafting it away from her nostrils before she could identify it. ‘Can you smell anything, Jack?’
Sorbie closed his eyes and smiled angelically. ‘Piss, mould, burnt plastic.’
‘Let’s get in there.’
The double doors were wooden and locked. The paint had been scorched off at the bottom where it looked as though someone had unsuccessfully tried to burn the doors away. Windows at the ground floor had again been blocked off with chipboard. Here, too, it had been professionally done by one of the many security companies providing that kind of service – in this case, Secure Somerset; every panel carried a sticker with their website and phone number. A side door had also been boarded up. Here, however, the sticker was missing and Fairfield noticed immediately that the chipboard was of a slightly different colour and even thicker than that used on the windows. Sorbie had moved on to examine the board over the windows beyond the door, but Fairfield hadn’t moved. He noticed and looked over his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘Through here.’ Fairfield ran a hand along the edge of the chipboard cover. It had all the usual bolts at fifteen-inch intervals, but they were fake and merely stuck on with too much glue. When she felt something cold underneath the board, she gave it a good tug and the board came loose. ‘Held on with magnets. Not seen that before.’
Sorbie was now by her side, helping her to remove the board completely. It covered a grey and battered metal door that had its lock drilled out and opened easily.
Fairfield sniffed. There was a strong smell of mould and damp on the other side of the wall. They found themselves in a small concrete foyer with pitted floors. To their right a scuffed and litter-strewn stair climbed to an upper floor; to their left an open doorway led into a dark cavernous space. Fairfield stood in the opening. Rays of sunlight pierced the large space which was littered with dark shapes, debris, remnants of machinery, dangling chains and cables. Fairfield found her Maglite and snapped it on, but its beam was swallowed up by the size of the emptiness in front of her. ‘Can you hear anything?’
‘Yeah.’ Sorbie stood very still. ‘Coming from upstairs. It’s some sort of humming sound.’
‘And now can you smell anything?’
‘Yes, something pongs. Let’s have a shufti upstairs. I’m pretty sure I know what we’ll find.’
‘Be careful: there might be people up there.’ She followed close on the sergeant’s heels, lighting the way for him. At the top of the stairs they came to a double wooden door, painted an ancient brown, its two square windows painted black. The two-hooped iron door handles were black and battered. The humming had become a loud chugging.
All of a sudden Sorbie was keen to get on with the job. ‘Let’s see if anyone’s at home, shall we?’ He reached for the iron hoops.
Fairfield yelled, ‘No! Don’t!’
It was too late. He had laid both hands on the iron hoops just as Bethany Hall had done. He let out a scream. The electric shock that ran through him was enough to throw him backwards into Fairfield’s arms. Slowly, he sank to the ground against Fairfield’s knees, shaking all over and groaning quietly. His breath came in jerks and he could feel his heartbeat doing somersaults in his chest. ‘What the fuck?’ he said weakly. ‘What the …’ Fairfield pressed the panic button on her airwave radio.
‘Oh, marvellous; thanks, Jane. You’ve just turned my headache into a migraine.’
‘Perhaps Doctor Coulthart has some painkillers,’ Austin suggested.
‘This’ll need more than painkillers. It’ll need surgery.’ While the SOCOs went about their business in the studio behind him, McLusky remained standing in the narrow doorway and took it all in. The room before him was small, no more than eight by ten feet, but it was crammed full with all the paraphernalia a neo-Nazi could wish for. There were no fewer than three portraits of Hitler on the wall, all framed. Two were photographs, one a print of a painting that tried to make the man look heroic. Swastikas were everywhere; there was one at the base of the lamp on the writing desk which also sported a small bronze bust of the corporal as a paperweight; there was a standard in a corner and a Third Reich flag displayed under glass. But the flag above the desk belonged to a different organization. ‘That’s a Golden Dawn flag, I’m sure. The Greek neo-Nazis who did so well in the last elections.’
‘But didn’t the Nazis commit all sorts of atrocities in Greece during the war?’
‘Yes. Turkeys voting for Christmas.’ An election poster behind the door confirmed the connection. All the writing on it was in Greek, but McLusky recognized the face of the current leader. ‘Isn’t he in jail at the moment for belonging to a criminal organization?’
Austin scratched the tip of his nose. ‘Not sure. Greek politics isn’t exactly my forte.’
‘So old Leonidas here was a fan. Or a member. Golden Dawn may pretend otherwise, but he certainly made no bones about being a Nazi.’ He stepped into the middle of the room. ‘It’s a bloody shrine, this. But someone’s been through it.’
‘Oh, for sure. That glass case is all messed up.’
Between two shelves crammed with books about the fascist movement, the Weimar Republic, Third Reich and the Second World War stood a small display case. The content of it was disturbed and there seemed not to be enough of it to warrant a display case in the first place: a signed photograph of the Nazi leader, a cigarette holder adorned with swastika carvings and a Hitler Youth wimple.
‘Whatever else was in here, someone’s had it away. But what?’ He stuck his head out of the door and spoke to the closest scene-of-crime officer. ‘Are you done with this room?’
‘Yeah, we started with that; you’re welcome to paw the stuff.’
‘Everything been photographed? Because I’m going to turn it upside down.’
‘Be our guest.’
For the next hour he went through the Nazi shrine with a methodical rage, cautiously assisted by Austin. Not only did McLusky find the glorification of the Nazi crimes distasteful but the sudden complication of the case aggravated his already smouldering anger. As he riffled the pages of another book in the search for anything hidden, he suddenly stopped, dropped the book on the now messy desk and stepped outside. ‘This door isn’t concealed or anything, is it?’
‘No, not at all. The door wasn’t forced either, which means the intruder had a key or found a key or it had never been locked.’
‘That means other people must have known about this. I don’t know if the other two painters ever came here, but his wife must have known.’
‘Perhaps that’s why she left him?’
‘If she had any bloody sense.’ He walked out, through the studio and into the sunny courtyard. Greedily sucking on a cigarette, he sat down in dappled shade on the edge of one of the enormous planters in which the palms grew.
Austin joined him. Not having a cigarette to play with, he drummed his fingertips on the side of the planter for a while until he felt it was safe to address McLusky without having his head bitten off. ‘I can�
��t see how this connects with the other two deaths at all.’
‘The Nazi shit?’ McLusky squinted against the sun. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t. We’ve no evidence that the other two shared Poulimenos’s politics. Or even knew about it.’
‘Could you ignore this kind of thing?’ Austin asked. ‘I mean, if you found that someone close to you was a neo-Nazi. Would you just think “each to their own”?’
‘Are you trying to tell me something, Jane?’
‘Hardly. But it’s not illegal in England to be a neo-Nazi.’
‘A lot of people would be in trouble if it was. No, I couldn’t ignore it. I wish we knew what was missing from that display case. It would be a start. I’ll be asking Elaine Poulimenos about it, or Elaine Simmons as she now prefers.’
A forensics technician carrying a large evidence bag entered the courtyard from the house. ‘Ah, there you are. Inspector?’
‘Yes. What?’ McLusky never expected good news from a forensics technician and he didn’t get any.
‘You asked me to find the CCTV recorder.’ He held up the evidence bag. It contained a vaguely rectangular blackened object that had been in an intense fire. ‘Found it. Inside the burnt-out Bentley.’ He offered it to him.
‘Take it away, man; what do you expect me to do with it?’
‘No pleasing some people,’ said the techie and walked back to the house.
Superintendent Denkhaus arrived soon after that, making light of the fact that he had omitted to tell anyone that he was staying the night with friends where his mobile had gone flat, as well as having forgotten to turn on his airwave radio, an omission he frequently berated junior officers for. McLusky reported to him at length about what they had found so far. Denkhaus was not happy about the neo-Nazi complication, either.
‘The press are going to be all over that. We’ll keep it quiet for as long as possible. There’s already a camp of the vultures outside the gates. What do you make of it, then?’
‘Nothing so far. We’ll know more when we’ve been through the phone and internet records. There was no indication that the other two victims had far-right connections. I’ll be interviewing the victim’s wife again; she should be able to throw some light on it.’