A Good Way to Go

by Peter Helton

  ‘Bit difficult on Anchor Road, too many. I don’t suppose your camera caught an image of who shot it out?’

  ‘Done from outside the frame, we think. We couldn’t spot it, anyway.’

  ‘When was it done?’

  ‘20.59.’

  ‘I want all the footage, from an hour before it was shot out until eleven,’ Austin said and hung up. He eased another sandwich triangle out of the carton. It drooped unpleasantly in his hand and gaped open, revealing a pale tongue of industrial ham furred with butter. He opened his mouth wide to receive it, then changed his mind and stuffed the sandwich back into the box. Perhaps McLusky had a point after all.

  In his car at his bus stop vigil near the statue of Neptune with his attendant bog-eyed fish, McLusky was staring at the special edition of the Bristol Herald – essentially a reprint of the lunchtime edition with a new front page – and blew smoke at the headline. NOW IT’S PERSONAL. The photograph took up nearly half the page; FUCK YOU MACLUSKY. Underneath he had been quoted almost word for word: ‘The killer is obviously of low intelligence. The moron can’t even spell my name.’ The rest of the article was the usual filler, conjecture and rant against the useless police force, though Phil Warren’s description of McLusky as ‘last man standing’ and ‘all that stands between the city and a deranged killer’ almost made him laugh.

  But not quite. There was more to the queasy feeling in his stomach than his nutritional incompetence; it was the nagging feeling that not only was the investigation slipping away from him, but that perhaps this article had been one step too far. He was almost certain Denkhaus would not have authorized the release of the picture or at least argued against it. ‘You’re in charge, McLusky,’ said McLusky quietly. He checked his mobile for perhaps the fiftieth time that day; it had charge and showed four out of five bars for signal strength. ‘Call me, you bastard. I’ve called you an illiterate moron, surely you won’t take that lying down. You and I know you’re a clever little sod.’

  It was getting late. Rush hour traffic was easing. The threat of rain had receded and been replaced with white clouds tinged with rose as the sun set over the harbour. Even the fountains looked less like a sewage works tonight. It was a fine evening; somewhere a man was being beaten to death, or perhaps electrocuted, while the man charged with finding his killer sat burping in a car full of rubbish, on the off chance the murderer might want to chat to him. McLusky called Austin on his plastic mobile. ‘Why haven’t you called me, what’s with the CCTV?’

  ‘I’m looking at it. It’s useless.’

  ‘You still working then? CCTV is always rubbish but why this time?’

  ‘He’s got his hood pulled down, obviously aware of the cameras. That’s from the building. I just got the footage from the street. At 20.59 precisely someone shot out the camera with an air rifle. The glass shattered and through the shards you can see one tiny corner of the street and nothing appears in it. Nothing. The camera was working but you can’t see a thing. And I’ve looked at the footage from before twenty times now, I can’t see where the shooter was, it’s just not there or I’m too stupid to see it. Shand was snatched between 20.59 and 22.30 because that’s when our man enters the building with his key.’

  McLusky sat straighter behind the wheel. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Our killer takes his time over killing his victims. If he’s got Shand in his van he’s not going to leave him in there while he trashes his flat. Even gagged and tied up a man can make noise. All it takes is someone walking past the van and hearing it. No, he drove him to his killing ground, then came back to trash the flat. That means it can’t be that far away. Nine o’clock he knocks out the camera. Even if Shand turned up a minute later he only has an hour and a half to snatch him, drive him to his place and come back to Anchor Road. Half an hour’s drive away at the most.’

  ‘Roads are pretty clear around that time, that’s still one hell of a radius.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Tomorrow you can go over all the CCTV in the entire area, follow every bloody van you see. Go home, Jane.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. You still parked up next to Neptune?’

  McLusky started the engine. ‘Just packing it in.’

  Anger, frustration, queasy stomach, neck and back ache, stress and niggling worries; Dr McLusky prescribed the same medication for all his symptoms, a night at the Barge Inn opposite his flat. Not even bothering to go home first, he parked the car and went straight inside. Behind the bar, Paul, the pub’s bald landlord, had come to recognize McLusky’s moods and knew the inspector had not come for pint, a pie and a chat. He nodded at him while pulling a pint of Guinness, took his money while it settled and wordlessly handed him his pint. Then he started pouring the next one, which he knew McLusky would come for within the next five minutes.

  McLusky woke reluctantly and swatted at the hand that was shaking his shoulder. He had fallen asleep with his seventh pint untouched on the table in front of him. He had slumped into the corner of the bench seat gently snoring for the last hour. The pub was empty. The landlord went to collect beer mats and glasses from the last tables. ‘You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here, Inspector.’

  McLusky passed a hand over his face, sat up straight and picked up his untouched pint, then set it down again as though it were too heavy for him. He got to his feet, picked up the glass once more and carried it to the bar, then made for the door. Paul called after him: ‘Thanks Liam, good night.’

  McLusky managed a grunt and pushed through the door into the dimly lit street. Behind him he heard the landlord bolt the double doors and a moment later the pub lights went out, leaving McLusky in an unusually dark Northampton Street. He looked up and saw that the street light in front of his house was not working. He crossed the street, still feeling asleep and probably drunk. The pavement was cluttered with recycling boxes and black bags of rubbish. He was crabbing towards his front door beside the entrance to Rossi’s between two nests of bin bags when a shadow on his right exploded with movement. He reacted too slowly to ward off the blow; the wine bottle caught him across the back of the head and he felt his legs go under him. He landed face down in his neighbour’s rubbish. The dark figure was on him in an instant, driving a heavy knee into his kidney area and grabbing his hair from behind with a gloved hand, pushing his face into the rubbish. ‘Don’t fucking move,’ hissed a voice. ‘I have a gun.’ Cold metal was pressed hard against his cheek, McLusky heard it rasp against his stubble. ‘I should do you right here, you annoying shit.’ The hand pressed more heavily on the back of his head. McLusky fought hard not to throw up. The back of his head was whirring with pain and he felt as though he was falling, spinning through the air into darkness. He had the smell of rotting garbage in his nostrils and a high-pitched electronic screech in his ears that came from somewhere deep in his brain. ‘I don’t care how you fucking spell your name, unless it’s on your gravestone. But you’re not on my list, you know, and I cannot even be bothered. I’ve just come to tell you to shut up and stop insulting me or I’ll simply put a bullet through you. Don’t know what’s keeping me, really. But I won’t even waste a bullet on scum like you.’ The gun was removed and he spat on McLusky’s neck. Then the man pushed himself upright and kicked him in the ribs.

  McLusky heard his rapid footsteps retreating. Moments later a small scooter engine started up, its prattling sound dwindling into the night. He vomited, just managing to push himself up high enough so as not to drown in the streams of dark liquid issuing uncontrollably from his mouth. Breathing was difficult. The world was still spinning but he crawled forward, across the vomit-streaked rubbish bags to his front door. He was still on his knees when he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Not until he reached the bottom of the stairs did he pull himself up, his head tilted down to the left. Nothing mattered, not the pain, not the nausea, not the breathing nor his shaking; only one thing mattered: the precious drops of his assailant’s spittle on the side of his
face, slowly dribbling down his neck now. He fell through his front door and groped along the wall to the bathroom. He grabbed several cotton buds from a plastic tub on the shelf and wiped them carefully through the area where he had felt the saliva land. Not having an evidence bag in the house he managed to get to the kitchen and stuff the cotton buds into a freezer bag and seal it. With the killer’s DNA sitting in the fridge between the Cheddar cheese and the low fat margarine McLusky stepped under the shower, still half dressed, and while blood and vomit sluiced off him waited for the world to stop spinning around him.

  Three hours later McLusky was still bleeding from the wound at the back of his head; reaching up to dab more kitchen roll against it made the ribs on his right side sing out in pain. He changed over to his left hand, which was barely an improvement. Having only one small shaving mirror in the house he had no clear idea of what the wound looked like, all he had to go by was the ragged imprint of blood on the wad of tissue. Head wound. It was an ominous expression. Breathing was painful and if past experience of injured ribs was anything to go by would become more difficult as inflammation set in. It took half an hour to sip the mug of sweet tea. Head wound. A stream of muttered obscenities helped him get dressed – bending down to tie his laces proved the most difficult – and dismissing the possibility of alcohol residue in his blood stream he drove himself to the A & E department at the Royal Infirmary, at this time of night only a five-minute journey.

  He was surprised at how seriously his injuries were being taken. It was not long before he was being wheeled about, pushed in and out of cubicles, seen by nurses, then a doctor, had both his head and chest X-rayed and countless questions fired at him by a second doctor. A light was shone into his eyes, he was invited to follow fingers and quizzed about his pains. His head wound was declared superficial, cleaned and dressed. The X-rays showed hairline cracks on three ribs.

  ‘Bed rest. Three or four days.’

  The doctor, wide awake, impossibly clean and coolly professional, looked too young to McLusky or perhaps it was just that he felt old and decrepit this morning. ‘That’s unlikely to happen,’ McLusky told him.

  ‘Please be sensible about this. Certainly if the headache persists. How does it feel now?’

  ‘Much better already,’ McLusky lied.

  The doctor shook his head, not believing it. ‘There is no point in playing the hero, if you’re concussed and don’t take it seriously the consequences of that could be disastrous. Is there anyone at home to look after you?’

  McLusky had already learnt not to shake his head since it sent waves of nausea and pain through him. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘And you really should report this to the police. Do you know the person who did this to you?’

  ‘First time we met.’ He got painfully, geriatrically to his feet. ‘But I’ll make an effort to get to know him better.’

  He left the hospital carrying a paper bag of painkillers and anti-inflammatory medication, unappreciative of dawn’s rosy fingers in the sky. While he drove home he still imagined himself going to work after some kind of breakfast but once in his flat and stretched out on his sofa with his duvet on top of him the fight went out of him. Sleep, however, seemed an impossibility. He had taken anti-inflammatories, set an uninviting pint glass of water beside him on the coffee table and dozed, chasing fruitless thoughts, calling himself names yet feeling strangely flat and unemotional. Even the effort of hating the killer seemed too much. Perhaps this was what depression felt like, flat, grey, tiring and pointless, he thought, and fell asleep.

  He woke from uncomfortable dreams to the chime of his pink plastic mobile. He checked the time. It was 10.30.

  ‘Where are you, Liam?’ he heard Austin say. ‘Denkhaus is back and wants a word.’

  McLusky made a wrong move and his ribs complained noisily. His head felt much clearer though his exploded scalp still burnt. ‘I don’t think I’ll make it into work for a while yet.’ He gave Austin a heavily edited version of what had happened to him. ‘I need you to come here and pick up his DNA. First make my excuses to the super. You can tell him about the possible DNA to keep him sweet.’

  ‘Nothing will sweeten him, he looks like he vomited out his soul. A few others are back too, they all look haggard. I’ll be round in a minute.’

  Half an hour later Austin made his way past a recycling gang who were emptying containers full of glass into their wagon in ear-splitting cascades. After having rung McLusky’s bell he had what felt like several minutes to peruse the display of vegetables outside Rossi’s. He had discussed buying more food from independent shops with Eve but there were none within miles of his house and somehow it never happened. McLusky had chosen this place wisely, and with a pub just across the street. At last the door release buzzed for an ungenerous split second and he was in.

  By the time he reached the flat McLusky was once more sitting in a corner of his sofa where he had been sipping tea and nibbling toast. The place smelled charred. ‘I burnt the first round,’ he explained.

  ‘Is that a hole in your head?’ Austin asked. The dressing at the back of the inspector’s head looked ominously large.

  ‘All glued together again and I don’t think I’m concussed. I’m tired but fine. He kicked me in the ribs, that’s my main problem.’

  ‘And he spat at you?’

  ‘It was a gift. It’s in the fridge in a sterile freezer bag. Let’s hope he’s known to us.’

  ‘What about the bottle he hit you with?’

  ‘He was wearing gloves, I could see it in the corner of my eye. Probably motorcycle gloves. After he ran off I heard a scooter drive off.’

  ‘So he has a scooter as well as a van.’

  McLusky pulled a face. ‘Arrest every scooter rider in the city and check their DNA and bingo.’

  ‘I have the feeling you’re not serious.’

  ‘Can’t be done.’

  ‘I’ll get the sample off to the lab stat, the super has told them to drop all else.’

  Austin retrieved the small zip-up freezer bag from McLusky’s fridge and drove back to Albany Road where he handed it to a courier. While he had been out DS Sorbie had made an appearance, looking even more surly than usual.

  ‘Is it true McLusky has been injured?’ Sorbie asked. Nothing trivial, I hope, he wanted to add but stopped himself in time.

  DI Fairfield too had returned to work. Austin went to see her with a preliminary forensic report on Ethan Gray’s camper van. He did not mention that it had been sent to McLusky as the arresting officer. Fairfield scanned the first paragraph. ‘Eeeyuck!’

  ‘Quite, ma’am. He had two cameras installed which he used to record women who he had conned into giving him their tights. Quite a few of them were mad enough to get into the van to take them off in private. Or what they thought was more private. He also lent the van to fellow female students on digs if it was raining heavily while he himself slept in a tent. Everyone thought he was extremely chivalrous.’

  ‘The disgusting little letch.’

  ‘Must have been at it for years, he had a huge collection of women’s underwear in two suitcases under his bed.’

  ‘It was you who collared him, I’m told.’

  ‘He ran straight into my loving arms.’

  ‘Well done. Now, if you don’t mind …’

  Austin didn’t mind at all. The possibility that they might identify the killer had injected a huge dose of adrenalin into the entire team. For the first time he felt they were getting closer to him. Not half an hour later the phone rang on his desk: Neil Shand’s body had been found.

  TWENTY

  ‘They must have thought he was just sleeping,’ said PC Hanham who had been guarding the site. He stole a sideways glance at McLusky who looked pale and had a crumpled dressing on the back of his head where some of his hair had been shaved off. He thought that if it were him he’d have taken a week off but it was well known that McLusky was the obsessive type.

  ‘Sleeping?’ McLusky sco
ffed. ‘I haven’t seen a deader corpse for a long time.’

  ‘Well, he was sitting up.’ Hanham argued.

  ‘It’s called rigor bloody mortis, you’d have thought the public would know the difference!’ But McLusky thought he knew exactly why it had taken so long for anyone to notice that the man sitting in the corner of the bus stop was in fact a corpse. Shand looked filthy, wrapped in some kind of sacking and death had given his face the peevish expression of an elderly drunk. The body looked like a tramp asleep and no one wanted to be bothered with a tramp, not while you were waiting for a bus and could not walk away. Coulthart had only just arrived and got ready to examine the body but had to wait until the screens had been set up, which had necessitated traffic police closing one lane of the busy Rownham Hill.

  ‘That’s the second bod that looked like a homeless man,’ said the pathologist as he came to a halt next to McLusky. ‘And you’re not looking too healthy again, if you don’t mind me saying so. If you were a patient of mine I would definitely prescribe rest, plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables and other things besides.’ Since there were junior ranks within earshot Coulthart refrained from mentioning that he would also recommend abstaining from alcohol and nicotine.

  ‘Would you really? Most of your patients are dead, surely.’

  After a rectal reading and cursory examination, Coulthart calculated that Shand had been killed in the early hours. ‘Can’t say what killed him yet. But as long as it is the same killer I expect you are not all that interested.’

  ‘Not unless it’s dramatically different. The killer owns a gun. He has not used it yet so I remain to be convinced that it’s real. Real guns are still hard to come by unless you have criminal connections and our man is no criminal.’

  ‘You make nice distinctions.’

  ‘Something a scientist like you should appreciate.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do. I’ll inform your office of the time of the PM.’