The Way That It Falls: DS Lasser series volume 2 (The DS Lasser series.)
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THE WAY THAT IT FALLS- ROBIN ROUGHLEY
Published at Amazon.
Robin Roughley 2014
THE WAY THAT IT FALLS
CHAPTER ONE
Rain fell like a biblical prophecy. Water cascaded down Market Street, a polystyrene burger tray bobbed along the gutter racing an empty Coke bottle. A flotilla of cigarette stumps gave chase as the storm drains struggled to cope with the sudden deluge.
It was the last Saturday before Christmas and the shops were in overdrive. Assistants hovered in doorways feverishly handing out flyers to bedraggled passers-by, offering last minute reductions on everything from plasma televisions to fizzy bath bomb sets.
Lasser loitered in the entrance of the shopping centre watching from behind the huge glass doors as people battled along the waterlogged street, shoulders hunched, colourful umbrellas popping up like psychedelic mushrooms.
The shopping centre was crammed. A line of stressed parents with fractious toddlers queued outside Marks and Spencer waiting to pay Santa a visit in his tinsel-lined grotto. Spend a tenner and receive a piece of tat from the shyster in the red suit.
Lasser winced as a boy, who looked old enough to know better, threw a strop, stamping his feet on the floor, head thrown back, tonsils on view as he wailed about having to wait in the queue. His mother looked around, red faced with embarrassment as her precious boy collapsed onto the floor and began to beat a tattoo on the shiny white tiles.
Cathy wandered out of Waterstones. ‘Shall we grab a coffee, or do you want to head home?’ she linked her arm through his and smiled.
The plate glass doors swung open and Lasser winced as the bitter wind howled inside. It felt as if it had been raining for weeks and now sleet was getting in on the act, he could see it swirling with the rain like confetti at a washed-out wedding.
‘I don’t mind.’ He fiddled with the cigarettes in his pocket, with the help of a nicotine patch and a fake plastic cigarette he was now down to ten a day, which in his book amounted to a minor miracle.
The street began to empty as people tried to escape the rain, the coffee shops and fast food outlets filling rapidly with drenched shoppers.
‘I love this weather,’ Cathy tilted her head to the pewter sky. She was sporting an old Belstaff jacket, hitched in at the waist and a wide brimmed hat that appeared to be keeping her relatively dry. Lasser grimaced as the rain seeped through the material of his so-called waterproof jacket.
‘So are we getting a coffee or what?’ she asked.
Lasser nodded towards Starbucks, shoppers jostled in the doorway trying to flee from the relentless onslaught. ‘Well, if you want to spend twenty minutes battling to the counter only to find the frothy coffee machine in meltdown, then sure, we can grab a brew,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘or we could be curled up at home in front of an electric fire with real glowing plastic logs.’
Cathy clasped her hands to her chest and swooned. ‘Oh how romantic.’
He grinned. ‘I thought you'd be impressed.’
‘And I suppose you want to grab a takeaway on the way home?’
After two hours of trudging around the shops the prospect of a beef Madras made Lasser's stomach rumble in anticipation. ‘Ah, you know me so well.’
‘Well, if that were true then I’d be able to think of a decent present to get you for Christmas,’ she flicked up the collar of her jacket. ‘I mean, there must be something you want?’
He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him short. ‘And before you ask, I refuse to buy you cigarettes or alcohol.’
‘OK, fair enough, but I could do with some more nicotine patches.’
She stopped; the rain beat a steady tattoo on the crown of her hat. ‘That's a joke, right?’
‘Well, it seems practical to me and think of the health benefits.’
‘What about aftershave?’
‘Are you saying I need aftershave?’
‘I’m saying you need to come up with some ideas or come Christmas you’ll end up with an empty sack.’ He raised an eyebrow; she smiled and punched him lightly on the arm. ‘You dirty sod.’
A man in a makeshift Santa outfit stood in the doorway of Cash Converters trying in vain to flog the Big Issue, the rain slowly turning the magazines to pulp.
‘Get out of the way, pal,’ the hoodie shouldered him to one side. Lasser caught a glimpse of Barry Collins, a snarl on his pitted face as he pushed his way into the shop, dragging a girl with scraggy brown hair and a thin face behind him. The bloke selling the ‘Issue’ shook his head and moved from the doorway.
‘It’s good to see the local scumbags are getting into the Christmas spirit.’ Lasser quipped.
‘Was that...’
‘Barry Collins, probably trying to trade in the girl for a second-hand Xbox.’
Cathy blew on her hands, before pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket and slipping them on. ‘I told you we should have gone to Southport.’
‘You still get morons in Southport; the only difference is they abuse you in a scouse accent.’
‘Hey, I’m from Southport and I’m no scouser.’
Lasser looked at her and shook his head. ‘Never be ashamed of your roots, Cathy.’
She threw him a sour look. ‘Southport is not Liverpool!’
‘Ah yes, but it does have a Merseyside postcode so technically you're a Liverpudlian.’
‘I...’
‘Stop him, stop that man!’
They turned; the man in the doorway of the jewellers flapped his arms like a demented bird. His pale pink shirt rapidly turning transparent as it soaked up the rain. His gelled hair falling flat like an undercooked soufflé.
‘Over there!’ Cathy pointed and Lasser spotted the figure steaming along the pavement, dodging between surprised shoppers, blue jeans and a black hooded jacket with white trainers. People scattered as they saw him coming, a young woman with a baby in a buggy just managing to pull the buggy to one side as he stormed past.
Lasser saw the elderly woman totter out of Boots the chemist, oblivious to the commotion, her head bent as she fiddled with the clasp of a red umbrella.
This time the thief didn’t try to swerve, instead, he decided to steamroll over the tiny obstacle in the fur coat and Russian hat. At the last second, he dipped his shoulder and slammed into her. She made no sound as her feet left the rain-slicked pavement, hitting the ground hard; her bright red handbag skittered away into the gutter, a flash of colour in a monochrome world.
‘Bastard!' Cathy let go of his hand and bolted.
A couple of seconds later, Lasser sprinted past. ‘Check on Thora Hird!’
Squinting through the rain, he caught sight of the fleeing figure. A couple of skateboarding kids all baggy jeans and teenage acne clapped and cheered as the thug ran past. He saw him storming the steps of the parish church two at a time, before disappearing from view. Lasser got his head down and opened the taps, cursing every cigarette he had ever smoked. A couple of men loitered in the doorway of the old Woolworth's store watching proceedings with indifference, narrow mouths pulling on thin hand-rolled cigarettes.
Reaching the base of the steps, Lasser swiped the rain from his eyes and looked up. The church loomed against the blackened sky; stone gargoyles gawped down at him through the drizzle. Clambering to the top, he made his way around the side of the building, squelching along the narrow waterlogged path. Water dripped off the laurel bushes that grew tight to the wall, plastic carrier bags ensnared in the branches flapped in the thin winter breeze like miniature flags of surrender.
Lasser headed slowly down the steps trying to see everywhere at once. The churchyard normally a haven for the derelicts and heavy drinkers was deserted, the driving rain had sent them scuttling for cover, hiding out in the bookmakers and backstreet pubs.
A blurring of movement to his left and a shadow peeled away from the boundary wall sprinting away across the grass.
‘That’s it, run away, you thieving bastard!’ Lasser bellowed, then watched in surprise as the fleeing figure skidded to a halt and turned.
‘Are you after a kicking, mate?’
‘Oh, we have a big man,’ Lasser’s voice was full of mocking disdain. ‘Does it make you feel good to knock little old ladies down?’
‘It makes no difference to me, pal.’ The voice was young, the accent local.
‘I am not your ‘pal’ you useless piece of shit.’
The figure began to walk toward him, pale hands bunched into fists.
Lasser dipped into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his car keys, he pressed the button on the fob and the key sprang forward. Making a fist, Lasser left half an inch of the key poking out between his first two fingers. ‘Yeah, come on, druggie boy. It’s been a while since I knocked out a few teeth.’ The figure stopped, his face smeared in shadows. ‘What’s the matter, big man, cat got your tongue?’ Lasser taunted.
‘I’m not a druggie.’ The scrote actually sounded distressed as if the insult had somehow hurt his feelings.
‘Which makes what you did even worse,’ Lasser spat.
‘Get fucked.’
‘Very original,’ Lasser said as he inched forward onto the grass.
The figure suddenly turned and sprinted away. Lasser gave chase, his sensible shoes slithering on the wet surface, arms pin wheeling for balance. By the time he reached the wall the thief had vaulted over and vanished.
The ambulance weaved between the bollards, lights flashing, siren wailing, the crowd of onlookers parted, reluctantly. Cathy had removed her old wax jacket and draped it over the elderly woman in an effort to keep her warm. As soon as she spotted the paramedics pushing their way through the throng she stood back, bodies pressed in around her to get a better look at the grizzly proceedings.
‘OK, come on, step back please!’ She was talking to no one in particular and everyone ignored her. ‘I said "step back" give them room to work!’
A man with a spider tattoo on his neck smirked at her; a kid by his side took a bite from his burger, his eyes glued to the figure sprawled on the ground. ‘Is she dead, Dad?’
The man ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Not yet, son, but give it time.’
Both paramedics knelt by her side, whispering to one another in hushed tones, after thirty seconds of frantic discussion one of them rose to his feet, ‘I'll get the stretcher,’ he began to head back toward the ambulance. ‘Make way please, come on we have a serious incident here, I...’
‘Watch it, pal.’
He looked at the man blocking his way. ‘Look, I need to get a stretcher if we don’t get this person to hospital…’
‘Say please.’
‘What?’ The paramedic looked at the figure in disbelief.
Cathy glanced up; he was about six three, head shaved, his dome shaped skull cratered like the surface of the moon. He grinned inanely at the paramedic, showing a mouth full of uneven yellow teeth.
‘Donald, if you don’t shift your arse this instant, then you can consider yourself under arrest.’ Lasser appeared through the crowd, a cold look of anger plastered across his sweating face.
Donald glared and then spun on his heels elbowing lesser mortals out of the way.
The paramedic nodded his thanks and headed for the ambulance.
‘How is she?’
Cathy swiped a strand of wet hair from her eyes. ‘Not good, she clouted her head on the kerb and she’s losing a lot of blood.’
He grunted and turned to the crowd. ‘I want everyone back. I’m a police officer and if anyone thinks I’m messing around then they can have their Christmas dinner down at Bamfurlong nick.’
The onlookers began to melt away, the words ‘fucking pig’ drifted out of the mass.
‘I take it he got away?’ she asked.
Lasser dragged a hand across his short dark hair and flicked the droplets away. ‘Jumped over the church wall and vanished.’
‘How come these people never break a leg or get knocked down by a taxi?’
He ignored the question. ‘Do you know if the cavalry are on their way?’
‘Well, the guy from the jewellers said he’d called the station.’
As if on cue, the sound of sirens split the soggy air, slipping off his jacket he placed it around Cathy’s shoulders.
‘Thanks,’ she smiled up at him.
The paramedics eased the elderly woman onto the stretcher and literally jogged to the ambulance, thirty seconds later they were gone.
By the time the squad car pulled up most of the bystanders had left to carry on with their Christmas shopping, the incident already forgotten about as they tried to grab a bargain.
CHAPTER TWO
Shaun Miller let himself into the flat, the dog barking behind the bedroom door sounded cacophonous in the narrow hallway.
‘Shut it, Tyson!’
The animal began to whimper, its claws scratching on the door.
‘I’m going to report you. It’s not right keeping an animal like that locked up all day.’
Shaun turned, his neighbour stood on the doorstep, pigeon chest thrown out in defiance, his false teeth dazzlingly white in his ancient walnut face.
‘What are you on about?’
‘You’ve got a dangerous dog in that flat, I’ve seen it and I’m going to tell the RSPCA or maybe even the police.’ He grunted as he played the ace up his sleeve.
‘Listen, you old bastard, if you even think of ringing the filth you’ll find out how dangerous the dog can be,’ he snarled as he jabbed out a finger.
The old man swallowed. ‘You don’t scare me, son.’
Shaun moved into the doorway and the neighbour backed off onto the balcony. He had a sudden image of the young thug picking him up and hurling him over the rail, cartwheeling ten floors to his death.
‘Yeah right, you’re not scared,’ he sniffed. ‘Is that shit I can smell?’
Miller slammed the door and headed into the lounge.
‘Are you in, Kirsty?’
No reply, he stuck his head around the bedroom door, the odour of stale socks and dog farts drifted out to greet him.
Apart from the bull terrier that shivered away in the corner, tail thumping rhythmically on the floor, the room was empty. Ambling into the living room, he opened his coat and pulled out the chains. There were twenty in all still attached to the display card. Smiling, Shaun slouched back onto the sofa and grabbed a can of lager from the floor. Christmas was always a busy time, easy pickings if you were on the rob. The shops desperate to make a sale were more than willing to pull out the expensive stuff. As far as Shaun was concerned, the recession was fast turning into a boom time.
A fifty-inch plasma television stood in the corner like an unmarked marble gravestone; four laptops were on the floor alongside dozens of stolen DVDs and four PS3s. He did a quick calculation; he would probably get eight or nine hundred quid for the lot, which considering he had nicked them all wasn’t bad.
He picked up the chains and dangled them from his index finger, happy days.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Mr Foster, please try and keep calm.’
The shop manager was in the grip of a panic attack, his face beaded with sweat, eyes frantic with worry. ‘This would never happen in Chester!’
Lasser placed himself beneath the heating duct relishi
ng the blast of warm air.
Tiny halogen lights set in the ceiling lit the shop, the light sparkled off a display of Rolex watches and gold rings.
PC Spenner was talking to a female shop assistant; jotting down her statement, his face stern as if he had the prime suspect cornered.
‘But we've only been open a week!’ Foster wailed.
Lasser pointed at the ceiling. ‘Do those security cameras work?’
‘No, they were due to be wired up between Christmas and New Year.’
What a joke, even the pound shops had security cameras that worked and they sold nothing but useless crap. ‘Well did you get a good look at the man who stole the chains?’
‘Not really, he came in and asked to see tray b6. It’s what people do, they look in the window and then we prepare whatever catches their eye.’
‘Prepare?’
Foster looked at him with a flicker of disdain. ‘Yes, we prepare the object so it looks its best. Although as you can see we sell only the highest quality merchandise, it basically sells itself.’
Not around here, it doesn’t, Lasser thought. ‘So you got the tray and what happened next?’
Foster licked his fleshy lips. ‘I placed them on the counter,’ he held out his arms as if he had the tray in his grasp. ‘Then he just snatched them and ran,’ he looked toward the door as though rerunning the scenario through his fevered brain. ‘At first, I thought it was some kind of joke. By the time I got to the door the thief had vanished, I shouted, but nobody took any notice.’
‘Yes well, that’s Wigan for you, Mr Foster.’
‘But what shall I tell Mr Munroe?’
‘I take it he’s the owner?’
‘He said I was ready to run my own shop, he trusted me and now look.’ Foster ran a hand through his hair and then looked at the greasy palm, a grimace on his tanned face.
For a few seconds Lasser was convinced the shop manager was going to burst into tears.
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll understand, after all I would imagine it’s an occupational hazard.’
‘Not in Chester it isn’t.’ Foster’s voice was full of bombast, as if he were addressing an imbecile.